#let's just say that with how he has treated them it is certainly debatable. BUT there have been times where-

[mad-hunts]

let me psychoanalyze you, but also be nice.

you're unbelievably lonely.

maybe the teacher always sat next to you on the bus because it was the only open seat on field trips. maybe you were the fourth kid in the group project who was only there because they needed one more person. maybe you spent all of 7th grade lunch in the library. i think it's important to remember that it won't always be like that. it might take longer than expected but nobody is alone forever. sometimes it's hard to remember that just because you've felt unloved before, it doesn't mean you're unloved now.

tagged by: i found this one on tumblr as well LOL

tagging: @oculusxcaro, @divingdownthehole, @veroxins, @killerharvey, @sanguine-salvation, and anyone else who might like to take this quiz!

[lightseoul]

so i finally did it, y'all—i commissioned the wonderful @zestivivi to draw my first-ever °˖✧ self-ship art °˖✧

and i couldn't help it upon seeing the draft; i had to write a drabble to give it a bit of a backstory and to really just treat myself, so here it is!

(the pic is under the cut, if you're not in the mood to read and just wanna take a peek at it!)

CALL ME YOUR FAVORITE, CALL ME THE WORST (k. bakugou x reader)

“—and so i told eijirou he could go to hell if he asked me to cover for him tonight,” bakugou finishes, just as you twist your key one last time, effectively unlocking the door.

you toss him a chastising look as you push it open, trying to ignore the hammering in your chest as you do so. “don’t talk to your best friend like that, katsuki.”

at that, he scoffs, trailing behind you and entering through the doorway. “correction, you’re my best friend. and he’s used to it.”

despite yourself, a smile manages to creep into your face, which bakugou unfortunately catches sight of. the man only smirks to himself before gesturing to his trainers, “where do i put these?”

“beside my birks, please,” you sing-song, although your voice comes out a bit wobbly.

fucking nerves.

dropping your bag on the counter, you quickly shuffle through your kitchen and toward your dining area slash living room slash bedroom, scanning the space for any spot you’ve missed before bakugou could see them.

you’re just about to conclude that this place is as tidy as it can get when you sense the pro-hero walk up beside you, and you look at him to see his eyes darting across the area in inspection, a pensive expression on his face.

“what’re you thinking?” you blurt out before you can stop yourself. you immediately regret it, though, bracing yourself for constructive feedback that you know will sting nonetheless.

it’s not every day you get to show your new place that’s your very own to anybody, let alone to your famously (notoriously) pedantic boyfriend.

“it's really clean,” he starts, pausing to think for a moment. he eventually turns to face you, that smirk from before now back on his face, “it’s very you. i like it.”

you feel a warmth wash over you, and you don’t fight the grin that’s invading your features. “aww, thanks, babe!”

he waves you off with a hand, resuming his thorough survey of your unit. “‘s nice how you displayed your books here, and that your guitar is easy to reach for. and your decorations are just abo—”

you glance back at the man from where you were hurriedly pouring him a cold glass of water, “just about what, kats?”

to that, bakugou doesn’t say anything. he seems frozen, eyes fixed on what you think is your entertainment area.

you pad toward the spot beside him, and you follow his line of vision.

directly right to your dynamight figurines.

almost instantly, your stomach drops as if you just got hit by a metaphorical tsunami of scalding humiliation. your feet move before your brain can catch up, and in a matter of seconds, you find yourself planted right in front of bakugou, obscuring his view of his mini-me’s.

at least, you tried to. the tall man only continues to effortlessly stare at them through the space above your head.

“so what do you want for dinner?” you manage to croak out, desperate to change the subject and bones threatening to give out in embarrassment.

“…is that a funko pop of all might and… me?”

the ground can swallow you up just about now, thanks.

for a beat, you debate as to whether or not to joke or lie your way out of this one, but one look at the inexplicable expression on your boyfriend’s face has you ultimately decided against it.

“…yes?”

now, in the split second of choosing to tell the truth, you came up with the expectations of him snorting in response, or maybe shooting you a confused look that reads ‘what the fuck’ or something similar, but you certainly didn’t predict him to laugh.

as in, drop his head back and howl laugh.

immediately, you feel yourself flame in shame as you watch the pro-hero bend slightly over and clutch his stomach in mirth, what you think are tears now pooling in the corners of his clenched eyes.

you can’t help but frown, “quit laughing at me, you jerk!”

that only makes him bark out another loud one, and just when you think he’s about to finish, he wheezes: “and you’ve got a nendoroid of me, too!”

that’s it.

you spin on your heel, turning your back on your jackass of a boyfriend, and you’re about to scoop the figurines into your arms and throw them into the abyss at the back of your closet when you feel something tug at your wrist, pulling you and your entire body back.

and before you can even comprehend what’s happening, bakugou’s invading your space and leaning toward you, planting his forehead right at the crook of your neck.

“wha—”

you’re cut off by bakugou snuggling into you, and you can feel him shake in laughter before the chuckles finally escape him and you’re both left in comfortable silence.

you hope he’s not hearing the thunderous ruckus your heart is making right now despite yourself.

a few moments pass with neither of you moving or saying anything before you finally decide to speak up.

“if you think this’ll make up for you laughing so blatantly at me, you’ve got another thing coming for you, mister.”

at that, bakugou snorts, retorting without missing a beat. “i wasn’t laughing at you, dumbass.”

you roll your eyes, although you don’t make any move to push him away. “sure, you weren’t.”

“i’m serious. it just caught me off guard.”

“and then you started laughing at me.”

from where he’s slotted right by your neck, bakugou huffs, and you stop yourself from shivering at the feeling of his breath against your skin.

“i was just laughing at how everything’s turned out, alright?”

instinctively, your eyebrows furrow in question, “what do you mean?”

he sighs, the puff of air he lets out tickling your flesh again, “i just think it’s fucking funny how i grew up with a shit ton of all might merch, and now i have my own merch displayed right beside him, in my girlfriend’s new home, no less.”

and, before you can even feign offense at his comment, he beats you to it.

“i’m just fucking happy, okay? just let me have this.”

you don’t know what else to say at his sudden confession, and so you only manage a nod, moving your head just enough for him to feel the gesture. slowly, you allow yourself to relax your shoulders and lean toward bakugou, who snuggles even closer to you in return.

“they’re quite expensive, you know,” you offer after a few seconds of silence. “and yours are especially hard to come by.”

you can practically hear the grin on his face when he quips, “what, am i your favorite hero, or something?”

“no,” you immediately retort, deadpan. “all might is. explains why i only have one figurine of him and a gazillion of you in here.”

at that, bakugou lets out a genuine laugh, and you don’t have to look at him to know he’s sporting that boyish grin and disarming eye smile that really nobody else has the honor of witnessing.

nobody except you.

you hesitantly bring your right hand up, unable to resist the urge to gently cradle the back of his head. upon the split second of contact, however, bakugou stiffens, and you’ve half a mind to withdraw and pull away when he does so.

but all the apprehension evaporates from your system when almost immediately after, he nestles closer into you.

you feel yourself flush at the motion, failing to stop the smile that takes over your lips.

and, if you didn’t know any better, you’d bet your expensive ass dynamight figurines he’s blushing, too.

bonus:

you’re in the middle of feeding yourself a spoonful of chicken curry when you decide you finally have enough. placing the serving firmly on your platter, you shift to face bakugou, who’s at your right and eating beside you.

more of side-eyeing you than eating in the past thirty minutes since dinner arrived, really.

you pull your lips in a tight line, “spit it out, kats.”

at that, he tosses you a disgusted look, before quickly swallowing the mouthful of cabbage he was just munching on. “why the fuck should i do that?”

you roll your eyes, “not the food, dummy. you’ve got something you want to say.”

“i do not.”

you only give him a knowing stare.

bakugou huffs, putting down his own spoon after a pregnant pause, “fine.”

it takes him a moment to finally do so, and when he does you almost choke.

“…so who the fuck is akaashi and why do you also have one of him?”

for context, here's my entertainment area LMAO i really took self-indulgence to another level, huh (sorry not sorry) title is from the song call me by shinedown (credits to @creativepromptsforwriting for the idea)

anyway, thank you so much again to @/zestivivi for turning my vision into reality and then some <3 thank you for being so easy to work with and receptive to my requests, particularly to make the character look just like me! 'til the next one, for sure :,)

[faggot-greg-house]

house is autistic i will accept no criticism

i have so many thoughts about house and autism. this might be the most unhinged post on my tumblr yet but here we go so house had the illusion of normalcy forced on him from a young age. i dont think thats like, full canon, but house talks about how his father abused him on more than one occassion and talked about how he was never satisfied or happy with house no matter what. so i truly dont think its a far reach to say that he would not have tolerated a "weird child." the thing that i think, though, is that all of his actions are a response to the fact that he's not particularly great at masking. he's afraid if he lets people close to him he won't be able to hide the fact that he's "weird" (aka bad). he intentionally pushes people away with his weird creepy comments and being an asshole and that's both him masking (if he's aggressively mean all the time no one will bother to look further) and a way of coping with the fact that he cant mask. the more he pushes people away the less likely it is that they'll see that he cares about things and that he's not "normal" like he's always been told. i also think that as the show went on, he got less and less concerned about masking. he constantly stims, he hyperfocuses and burns out, he panics about change, he treats his fellows a lot more like family. once he got to a point in his life where his "weirdness" is not something he can be ruined for (he's tenured and he has people who will fight for him) he found himself a lot more able to be aggressively autistic, even if he struggles with it due to trauma.

a huge Autism Moment in the show for me is when foreman quits and house fires chase. house has been afraid his whole life of showing who he actually is, as mentioned. his fellows, though, are his People, they knew all of his shit and they never ran awayy from it. they didnt question who he was and what he knew, only his methods, and they were willing to fight back against him (something he's shown he loves). but then foreman quits because he "doesnt want to be like house" and this is house's worst nightmare. this is exactly why he had normalcy beaten into him, because being weird only makes it that people will run away once they know you. he dared to let people see a bit of who he actually is and how he thinks and acts and foreman essentially said "i cant stand to be like you." on top of that fear, his team became Different. he doesnt know if chase or cameron thought the same things as foreman, if they were also judging him or hating him for being autistic. it sent him into fucking panic mode because how is he supposed to trust them when he doesnt know if they agree with foreman!!!!! and even if he could, the team is Different and its for a reason he cant control and he cant just go back to normal. his method of interviewing his new fellows also shows this - how is he supposed to be able to tell if someone will be okay with who he is and if they'll work well together based off a short intervew where he's almost certainly masking the whole time???? anyway. to end this absolutely unhinged post ive put together an inconclusive list of autistic traits and actions from house, and i want to say that so much of this is him being written off as an antisocial eccentric genius and, while he is an ass that cant be debated, it clearly runs deeper than that!!!!

he doesnt understand how ppl feel (he repeatedly talks about how small talk is like a guessing game for him and he doesnt know what to say)

he doesnt like to be touched (for a lot of the show people just do Not touch him, wilson excluded)

he stims constantly and he needs Sensations

he's blunt, rude, somewhat monotone, etc

he has a hard time making friends

he has a hard time saying what he feels (he'd rather joke or be mean than analyse his emotions)

he has a routine that he Sticks To (even thgh its not exactly the same because of patients etc, he goes to work late, he talks to the same people, he sits in his same office. he's shown coming to work sick at one point and he doesnt rly go on vacation. plus when cuddy took his bloodstained carpet it was such a fundamental change to his life that he couldnt deal)

he notices Everything (yes ik this is a sherlock holmes thing but consider sherlock holmes - also autistic)

he has a method and train of thought that works for him and he is unwilling to break from it (he's shown at least once stopping the fellows from writing on his whiteboard, and after he loses the og three he continues trying to hold ddx's because its how he Thinks)

[mychlapci]

So if Ultra is training Sentinel to be his little slutty secretary, Megatron is training his little Prime to be his partner not only in bed, but in battle too.

Optimus is the only mech who's actually managed to match Megatron in battle for eons, it would be a shame to lose that prowess. Even if Optimus is lubricating through his panels and drooling at the mere sight of Megatron's spike, he's still fighting the hypnosis. At first, Megatron pays it no mind, treating Optimus the same as he would any autobot slut. But soon he notices a pattern. Optimus doesn't respond well to being told to get on his knees and fights even while under hypnosis, his iron will won't let him submit and he even manages to break through, if only just enough to get a few rebellious phrases out. However, when Megatron treats Optimus like an equal, calling him his consort, his queen, actually listens to Optimus when he talks, Optimus practically melts and is much more cooperative in berth, easily submitting and begging like how Megatron imagined the first time.

Eventually it clicks, in order to get Optimus to behave, to submit, he has to treat him like he's equal to Megatron. The hypnosis is supposed to ensure submission, but submission can come very differently between mechs. For Optimus, he will only be submissive if his partner treats him with dignity and respect.

Honestly, it's a little concerning. Optimus has been so mistreated and neglected that he can't imagine being respected in anything other than his dirtiest, kinkiest, fantasies.

Megatron isn't surprised by this, and is in fact quite upset. He's very disappointed that the council hasn't changed in the millions of years he's been gone. So, if the hypnosis will only work on Optimus if he makes him is Queen and treats him as such, then so be it.

And it works out wonderfully. Megatron trains Optimus as his equal, teaching him to fight, to manage an army, to be a leader not unlike Megatron himself. Optimus' training regimen fills out his figure, a lovely hourglass figure with wide hips and thick thighs, his waistline is wider to accommodate for his shift in stature. When Megatron is in his office doing paperwork, he convinces Optimus that a good leader knows how to keep on top of his tasks with well deserved breaks. Optimus falls for it hook, line, and sinker, helping with Megatron's paperwork. Unlike Sentinel who is perfectly content doing as he's told without question, Megatron encourages Optimus to ask questions, start debates, he's come to the conclusion that Optimus truly is the best choice in consort and must be prepared to take over the Decepticon Empire should Megatron be unavailable. All of this coxxes Optimus further and further into his trance, happily giving himself to Megatron letting him plow his valve and fill him with transfluid.

And once Optimus is sparked, whoo boy. If Megatron was pretending to respect Optimus for the sake of keeping him under hypnosis, he certainly wasn't now. Carrier's are a very serious matter to Decepticons after all, and Optimus was treated with all the respect and love as any other Decepticon carrier. This comes with the added bonus of Optimus falling even deeper into his trance.

Best thing? Even if Optimus was pulled from his trance, no one would be able to tell. Optimus is fully cognizant under hypnosis, the program is telling him "it's ok to give in, to let these big, strong, brutes take the reigns and ruin his little valve with their monster size spikes. To give them control, to let them in, to follow every direction he's given like a good little slut and beg for his overloads. To be a good little whore and take their spikes without complaint." Optimus wouldn't allow such a thing without his input, "I'll do as I'm told, I'll let them fuck me, breed me, but ONLY if I get a say in it. If we're doing this, we're doing it my way."

And he does genuinely like the way Megatron treats him, it truly is a kink for him to be respected. If he's pulled out of the hypnosis, Optimus wouldn't change a thing. He's already ensured the safety of earth and it's people, his crew is being well taken care of by their handlers, and honestly? Cybertron did need to be reformed. Maybe he can convince Megatron to remove the hypnosis on the population in a few years, after Decepticon rule has been implemented and secured.

Megatron thought he played Optimus with the hypnosis? Optimus played the entire program by twisting it in his favor. Hypnosis can't make you do things you weren't capable of to begin with after all. It's a win-win situation tho, so no one's complaining.

Optimus with a kink for being respected... the implications are staggering and the possibilities are endless.

Optimus stubbornly fucks up his hypnosis because no way in hell is he letting Megatron treat him like some stupid idiot slut... He'll be his consort, sitting in a separate throne, with enough room for his growing belly, and he won't be pushed around. Megatron honestly can't believe just how much he likes it. A feisty autobot wife is much better than a plain, dumb spike-sleeve like Sentinel was turned into.

Megatron knows he's chosen right... He now has a worthy conjux helping him rule the newly conquered Cybertron, and producing heirs who'll inherit the entire empire once they're gone. This is everything he never knew he needed <3

[bumblingbabooshka]

I hate when Chakotay is watered down to be Janeway's yes man because their disagreements are actually very interesting. [A lot of rambling analysis of this debate in particular below]

Chakotay in Parallax is very interesting in that he has to navigate a lot of different dynamics. Balance a lot of plates while being watched keenly by everyone around him. Immediately preceding this scene we see him ask B'Elanna for her opinion on the bridge - both as a chance to show her knowledge in his bid to make her chief engineer (because she wouldn't get a chance to otherwise as Janeway has clearly indicated that at this point she views B'Elanna as a troublemaker who won't be considered for the position) and because he just thinks she's a better engineer than Carey and wants the best possible chance of them succeeding. Janeway sees this as unacceptable. Carey is the chief engineer and so he should be called and Chakotay NOT asking for his opinion is an insult to Carey, Janeway, and might make the crew doubt Chakotay (and by extension the Maquis') loyalty to the Starfleet crew.

At this point it seems that to Janeway integration ["They're not your people"] means the path of least resistance, specifically tailored towards the Starfleet crew. She wants Chakotay by her side to keep the Maquis crew calm but also seems unwilling to consider them for important positions aboard the ship. Though she says that the Maquis are not Chakotay's people, not his crew, she certainly doesn't seem to consider them hers [Compare this to later instances where she stresses 'our' crew, here she simply says they aren't Chakotay's: Whose crew are they? Are they crew at all?]. This less leaves the impression of "We need to be a cohesive team" and more "You're not in charge here." She essentially accuses Chakotay of playing favorites. In her mind Chakotay's actions are not conducive to integrating the crews which would (again, in her mind) mean the Maquis being docile and accepting, obedient and content - not making trouble for the Starfleet crew. Chakotay counters Janeway's accusation with one of his own: That he IS trying to integrate them into the crew but her not allowing the Maquis any opportunity to prove themselves or succeed, not showing any trust in any of them (except, implicitly at this point, him) is making things difficult. At this point the Maquis crew are ready to mutiny on his word at any time. He knows this for a fact. Aside from that looming threat (the threat being that tensions are high and if nothing changes and they remain high there might be a mutiny even without his word) - Chakotay knows these people and trusts them. Though Starfleet and Janeway think of the Maquis as a violent bunch of criminal terrorists, Chakotay and a good number of the Maquis joined because they believed in the cause they were fighting for. These are people Chakotay knows WILL fight fiercely for what they believe in and conversely, AGAINST what they perceive as injustice. Even if they're not in the majority - they're used to picking fights which seem impossible to win. At this point Janeway admits that she ISN'T making it easy for Chakotay to integrate the Maquis - specifically talking about practical concerns; how she doesn't feel she can let Maquis crew have roles of importance on the ship because they lack the ability to hold them. "They don't have the discipline, they don't have the training," - asserting that they just aren't prepared for any such roles and it doesn't have to do with them being Maquis specifically. Ostensibly, she's treating them as she might treat anyone unqualified for the job.

Chakotay maintains that some of them, like B'Elanna, have the ability to be trained - challenging her point by saying that IF they're trained there's no reason for any Maquis member NOT to be given a more prominent role on the ship. He isn't suggesting they just unqualified people important jobs. If the problem is that they aren't trained, let's train them. These people have the ability to succeed if you give them the tools they need and a fair chance, he insists. Janeway then switches gears and her argument becomes not "The Maquis are untrained so they can't be given those jobs" but "The Maquis crew are unworthy of those jobs when compared to Starfleet personnel" saying that it'll cause insult and upset among the Starfleet crew if any member of the Maquis were to be promoted above them. Again, her idea of integration is based more on Maquis subservience to the Starfleet crew than it is the two crews working together. (Not that I believe she looks at it that way, it's just where her 'path of least resistance' leads) - though she accuses Chakotay of being too focused on "his" crew, she is admitting here that she believes her real crew are the Starfleet officers aboard, not the Maquis. She also admits here that the system she wishes to maintain (and is asking Chakotay to enforce) is one where there will ostensibly never be any chance of a Maquis crew member being promoted because no Maquis crew member will ever be more qualified, more worthy, than a member of Starfleet. We can see how it'd be difficult for Chakotay to convince his crew to remain calm under these circumstances. There's also Tuvok's behavior toward him at the beginning of the episode where the Vulcan nearly goes over Chakotay's head and when he doesn't do so (as Chakotay reminds him that HE'S the superior officer, the First Officer in fact,) Tuvok acts as if him backing down (partially) and conceding (partially) to Chakotay's authority is a favor to Chakotay.

Tuvok in this conversation is downright insubordinate to Chakotay. Despite Chakotay being the first officer, he doesn't take what he says seriously, argues that his own opinion on what should be done should be followed rather than Chakotay's, lectures the first officer about his conduct, and then almost seems to threaten him with a report. In Starfleet's rigidly hierarchical rules, acting like this to a superior officer (ESPECIALLY the first officer) wouldn't be tolerated and Tuvok knows this perfectly well. He isn't a rebellious character and clearly in other episodes adheres to these Starfleet hierarchies and codes of conduct very strictly. He values them highly. But Chakotay, a Maquis, shouldn't be First Officer. Why should he be given respect for a title he didn't earn? [Affirming Janeway's argument about how Starfleet officers won't be eager to follow a Maquis senior officer] Even though Chakotay tells Tuvok off for it ["I don't have to explain myself to you"] he doesn't threaten to put Tuvok on report or explicitly mention his insubordination. It's unclear if this is Chakotay's personality or if he just doesn't feel he CAN do that. Tuvok is one of the three most senior officers aboard and very close to Janeway. Chakotay has to think of the optics of any situation at all times - we see seconds after this conversation that rumors have already started swirling around B'Elanna being relegated to quarters that've fanned the flames of mutiny. Though we know Tuvok has personal reasons for behaving the way he does toward Chakotay (which he later admits), I really don't think it'd be out of the ordinary for this to be how most Starfleet personnel would treat the Maquis if they weren't outright hostile: Like they're only pretend crewmen. To a lesser extent we even see this with Janeway: In the following staff meeting, she clearly doesn't consider B'Elanna a viable option when Chakotay brings her up and almost ignores the suggestion entirely.

It also, again, leaves Chakotay in an impossible position. If he doesn't protect and fight for the Maquis crew, they won't ever be considered a true part of the crew and dissatisfaction will likely spread among them. Dissatisfaction which the Starfleet crew will then use to further label the Maquis as insubordinate, uncontrollable, unfit. Not to mention that if he doesn't advocate for them, he might lose their trust. However, if he DOES try to help the Maquis crew advance the Starfleet crew will view this as 'favoritism' and will further distrust him, won't respect the people he puts forth as worthy. Janeway seems to be intent on not advocating for any of the Maquis crew and also seems unwilling to ask that the Starfleet crew grant leniency. She implies that the Maquis crew need to learn to get in line and keep quiet and it seems almost like [we must remember the optics] she has Chakotay as the only Maquis in a position of power to facilitate that. Chakotay recognizes and pushes against that, saying that he won't just be her token Maquis - there only so she can point to him and say "See? We don't discriminate against the Maquis here." effectively a tool used to shut down any arguments of unfair treatment and a tool to quell the Maquis if any talk of mutiny DOES arise. In this model, Janeway can just tell Chakotay to calm them down and they'll listen because they trust him. She also doesn't have to really listen to anything he says: A token First Officer has no authority; his words don't hold weight. [Chakotay isn't Maquis anymore, they aren't his crew anymore - ok. What is he then? What are they? Nothing, without respect.] This plan seems untenable, as much as Janeway frames it as sensible: "I can't make it easy, Commander. Surely you can understand that," and alternatives as impossible "How am I supposed to ask them to accept a Maquis as their superior officer just because circumstances have forced us together?" - in the long run, how would this be sustainable? In any power structure, you cannot expect a group of people you're unwilling to grant trust or agency to obediently follow you forever. This proposed form of 'integration' in which the Maquis are kept on the bottom rung and told intermittently to stay there quietly by the only one of them granted permission to stand at the top would never be sustainable - especially with a group like the Maquis who again, were founded on the belief that its members should fight against inequity and are already on the verge of mutiny.

I specifically find the statement "How am I supposed to ask them to accept a Maquis as their superior officer just because circumstances have forced us together?" to be interesting because personally I'd say that being forced together for the rest of almost everyone's natural life is a pretty good reason to ask people to adapt and Janeway does understand this but only applies it to the Maquis - the Maquis are the ones who have to adapt, not Starfleet. The only thing the Starfleet crew have to do is tolerate their presence on board.

At this point Janeway again claims that if Chakotay can show her a 'qualified' Maquis candidate she'll consider them. I believe this is true but we already know that Janeway's standards for qualification will likely not fit the vast majority of the Maquis and Chakotay ignores the claim in favor of putting forth B'Elanna again, firmly. Janeway predictably dismisses her as unqualified and Chakotay disagrees, arguing that he knows her. He's worked with her. He KNOWS that B'Elanna can excel at the job even if she doesn't meet Starfleet/Janeway's qualifications. He doesn't value those qualifications over what he's observed about her - just as he didn't value Carey's title over what he knew about the gap between his and B'Elanna's abilities. Then, Chakotay switches gears. He admits that Janeway's right - he does view the Maquis as his crew but that's because Janeway (almost self admittingly) doesn't and if he doesn't, who will they have? [What kind of captain, kind of man, would he be?] "You're going to have to give them more authority if you want their loyalty." "Theirs or yours, Commander?" Janeway frames Chakotay's words pointing out the flaws in this plan which I outlined earlier, as almost a threat (if she doesn't have Chakotay's loyalty it'll most definitely mean mutiny). Chakotay asserts that it wasn't a threat, he's only trying to help by telling her how the Maquis crew will react to what she's telling him. "I'm sorry you can't see that" - not an apology for what he said but that she isn't willing to budge, not willing to listen to him and acknowledge that she might be as biased towards her crew as he is towards his. Chakotay is trying his best to acclimate his crew but if Janeway isn't willing to do the same, to talk to her people as he's talking to his, then this will not end well and that isn't a threat. It's just the reality of the situation. He then asks permission to leave, showing he is willing to observe Starfleet protocol (just as when he asked permission to speak freely), and Janeway lets him go, exhaling at the intensity of their debate when alone in her ready room.

[bizaar]

Endless Summer ✧

Part 3: Band on the Run

Cruel Summer Masterlist

Prev - Next

pairing: eddie munson x afab!reader

warnings: sexual content (18+ minors dni), horny-loser!reader, brief descriptions of sexual fantasies, swearing, and so much pining

word count: 19k

a/n: we're back baybeee! also, if anyone knows the original creator of the gif below, please let me know so I can tag them, I've had these on my laptop for over a year and I've lost all my credits!!

In the three hours it has been since you got home from school, the floor of your bedroom has become almost totally obscured by what is essentially every article of clothing you own. You’d made the mess in a frantic attempt at putting together an outfit out of thin air because you don’t actually own anything cool enough for how you’re planning to spend your night.

You’re supposed to be babysitting, just like every other Tuesday night you’ve spent since you were thirteen years old, but this week, for the first time in history, you did everything in your power to get out of that duty. You’d pulled out all the stops to convince everyone that, despite the perfect health of your earlier day, you’d somehow managed to contract a sudden onset, highly contagious illness sometime between fifth-period chemistry and now (one you intend on making a swift and miraculous recovery from) and for the safety of everyone around you, you should not be disturbed under any circumstances.

You blame it on how you’d spent four hours out in the cold, taking Dustin and his friends around to trick-or-treat last night, though all that does is get your mother on your case about how she “told you to wear a coat”, but would you listen? No.  

 It took almost a full hour of debate, all the tricks you’d ever seen employed in movies to fake sickness, and what you like to think of as an Oscar-worthy performance on your part, but your parents eventually gave in and called across the street to deliver the news. Part of you feels like it was only because they didn’t want to argue with you anymore, but in any case you got what you wanted.  

Dustin was going to the Wheelers, your parents were going to their weekly Tuesday night extracurriculars, and (unbeknownst to everyone else) you were going to see a band play at the Hideout.

Though not just any band.

The only reason you’ve gone to such lengths to get out of all your previous plans is because you’ve been personally invited to go and see Corroded Coffin play — Eddie’s band. 

Of course, you didn't know that at the time of the initial invitation, which came through Gareth, just as the school bell was finishing its cacophonous ringing to signify the end of fifth-period chemistry. 

“Hey, so, what are you doing tonight?” he asked, leaning less than casually on his elbow to peer down the length of his nose at you.  

You remember thinking that the way he was twisting at the waist looked terribly uncomfortable, but you were only half conscious of anything going on around you as you began the arduous task of orienting yourself toward your original plans for the night.  

“Homework.” You replied in an absent monotone, trying for the millionth time not to get sucked back into the memory of the lunch period spent “swapping eyes” with Eddie Munson. 

It’s been five days since then, but who’s counting?

Certainly not you and all the assignments piling up in your locker, waiting on the promise of “later” you’ve been making since the moment you finally managed to drag yourself out of those woods.

You were vaguely aware of Gareth answering with some kind of a droll response – which was entirely on brand for the likes of him – but you hardly heard him say it.

 You had a lot of other things on your mind, all of which seemed much more important than divulging your wholly uninteresting after-school plans to your lab partner.

Tonight, you’ll be sitting at the Henderson’s kitchen table doing all your overdue assignments while your prepubescent charge plays Atari, nothing more, nothing less. 

Talk about a rip-roaring good time, right? 

Still, it beats the “casual hangout” in Steve Harrington’s backyard Carol had tried to coerce you into attending under threat of major bodily harm. Not that being forced to sit around a pool in early November, fifth wheeling while everyone around you sucks face doesn’t sound like just the most fun a girl could have, but you told Carol the same thing you told Gareth about your plans for that night – you’ve got to do your homework, and it’s not even a lie. 

Normally, you like to think you’re a much better student, and while you’re not entirely sure that line of thinking is warranted (as is evidenced by your last report card, which saw you pulling straight C’s) you know for a fact that any and all thoughts of academia flew right out the window the moment Eddie put himself in the seat across from you in the lunchroom. 

And aren’t you so incandescently glad he did? 

It is a sentiment your teachers do not share. That morning (the first day back after a long weekend spent miserably pining) you’d even received the dreaded summons from your guidance counselor, who sat you down and asked if “everything was fine at home”. 

Why? You’d wanted to ask – because you were seen slinking off to the woods with Eddie Munson or because he wasn’t in school the next day and you haven’t turned in a single assignment since? You might remind them that with the long weekend, there are only technically two days of work missing, but you know they don’t want to hear that because this isn’t really about the homework.  

This is about you following Eddie out into the woods.

How are you supposed to think about things like formulas and essays when you can still see him gazing back at you from across the picnic bench every time you close your eyes? With that dreamy look on his face? 

And more to the point, how are you meant to explain to an adult that everything is fine, it’s only just you haven’t seen him in nearly a week and, not to be dramatic or hideously cliche, but you can’t seem to eat, sleep, or concentrate on anything so banal as homework when you’re fairly certain he was getting ready to kiss you out in those woods before the bell rang?

You’re not positive that’s where things were headed, but you’re pretty damn sure, and it's enough to get your girlish libido ringing the warning bells of your imminent demise with every day that passes out of Eddie’s presence. 

No, you can’t explain that to an educational professional or Carol, or anyone else without raising some serious alarms. Because you’re not even supposed to be talking to Eddie Munson, let alone sneaking off to the woods to become as completely captivated by him as you are. 

And he didn’t even kiss you… 

God, how you wish he would have just kissed you, especially after the way he seemed to make himself scarce the moment you took your eyes off him. 

You’d put quite a lot of time and energy after you got home that Thursday evening into wondering what it would have taken to get Eddie to lean over that table, and quite a bit more into wondering whether you ought to have bucked up and done it yourself. 

Not that it mattered, because he didn’t kiss you and you didn’t kiss him, and there you remain, unkissed and suddenly the topic of everyone’s conversation.

Because on top of everything else, there is that side of it. 

Like somehow a spell had been broken that afternoon you followed Eddie out of the lunchroom, everybody and their mother is suddenly keenly interested in you. People who have never given you the time of day suddenly know your name, and they want to know all the intimate details of what you did with Eddie Munson out in the woods, or rather, what he did to you. 

You probably should have known that was coming.

Still, you hate to indulge them with any kind of answer, even if it happens to be a big fat nothing. They only want to know so they can wrinkle their noses and sneer and shout about how “fucking nasty” that is — shacking up with the Freak King — just like Carol did in the lunchroom the day before all your dreams came true. 

You would spare yourself that humiliation if you could, but more than that, you’re struck by how you don’t want them talking about Eddie that way. 

You have become inordinately fond of him since that afternoon, more than you already were, and in a very specific way. Somehow, you can’t help but feel that, even though your conversation lasted less than twenty minutes altogether, you understand each other now.

You’re simpatico.

You might even venture to say that you’re almost friends. 

Strange how a little quiet intimacy was all you needed to curb the rabid edge of your obsession. Eddie is still all you think about, but in a decidedly calmer way, because he thinks you’re nice and approachable, and you think the same about him.

Still, in the five agonizing days it’s been since that big fat nothing happened, the questions have not stopped. Part of you wants to give them an answer if only to shut them up, but somehow you don’t think “he captivated me” is going to satisfy the people’s ravenous appetite for gossip. 

You’re certain everyone has already made up their mind about what they think happened, anyway. In the food chain of high school social constructs, it doesn’t matter what did or didn’t happen, it only matters what people say happened. and you’re absolutely certain that you’re going to hear all about it sooner or later.

You realize now that’s probably why Carol was so desperate to get you to come out and fifth wheel tonight when she knows you have to babysit. She keeps telling you that you owe her because you didn’t go to Tina’s Halloween party, but somehow you’re not convinced she was that upset to have missed you.

Maybe it’s just that she doesn’t trust you not to lie to her about where you’re going to be and who you’ll be with, who will see you with them, and how that will come back to reflect on her. Guilty by association is the law of the land at Hawkins High, after all.

With all that weighing heavy on your mind, you ignored any further questions Gareth had about your after-school plans and shoved your books into your bag, ready to submit yourself to the quiet death of study hall. 

Ugh… study hall… you’d rather eat glass. Then again, you’d also rather not have to spend your summer watching the sweat beading on Mrs. O’Donnell’s upper lip in summer school, so down the hall you went, headed against the flow of traffic in the busy hallway.

Somehow, it feels like overt symbolism bashing you over the head – you’ve always hated a cliché.  

Lucky for you and your impending academic doom, Gareth was not so easily deterred and scrambled to follow you out the door.

“Why don’t you come out tonight instead?” He asked innocently, like it was the most casual thing in the world and he wasn’t struggling to keep pace with you as all your classmates shoved past.

The question hit you square in the back, punching your lungs flat and wrenching you out of your thoughts with enough force to make your head spin.

“Excuse me?” You gasped, pulling to a stop and whipping around so suddenly that Gareth, who you hadn’t realized was skirting along at your elbow, nearly took a blow to the solar plexus in his attempt to keep up. 

Your insides clenched and forced your heart up into your throat, but before you had the time to decide whether or not Gareth had just asked you out, his eyes went comically wide, and he began to backpedal as if his life depended upon it. 

Then again, it might have, if what he said was true and word got back around to Eddie.

“Not like a date!” He yelped, throwing his hands up and showing you his palms in a way that flooded you with a strange and instant relief, “Just as friends—”

Oh, thank God for that. 

You could barely wrap your head around the concept that Eddie feels any sort of intimate way about you —and you’re still not entirely convinced about that — but to suddenly learn that you are the object of two affections? That’s too much revelation for one week, and you can only thank that dim lucky star that so infrequently passes you over that it had been nothing but a misunderstanding. 

Not like a date, Gareth said, Just as friends, and you’re fine with that.

From there, he had your full attention as he went on to explain that his band was doing a set down at the Hideout, and he was extending you a personal invitation to come and see them play. You had no idea Gareth was in a band, though that was perhaps stupid on your part based solely on the boy’s appearance – of course, Gareth is in a band, and of course, that band’s name is Corroded Coffin (which you’re only slightly ashamed about giggle-snorting over when he told you) Between that and the location, your gut reaction was to refuse. 

Gareth is great, especially when he’s playing the herald to all your hopes and dreams, and especially when he isn’t asking you out, but no.

Absolutely not. 

You would not be going to see Corroded Coffin tonight.

Lucky for you, you’ve had the perfect excuse to get out of anything and everything that sounds like a colossal bore since you were thirteen years old, and you were all too happy to trot it out.

“Oh man, I wish I could,” you began, trying to mask the faintest hint of smug satisfaction in your tone with an apologetic scrunch of your features, “...but I’m babysitting tonight.”

And you would have been content for the conversation to end there, but you didn’t count on Gareth having an ace in the hole, one he was all too happy to knock you upside the head with and send your brains splattering all over the crusty school linoleum.

“Aw, really? Damn, that’s a bummer,” he hummed, “I know Eddie would’ve been stoked to see you.” 

Your heart skipped a beat and you had to fight to stop yourself from seizing Gareth by the front of his shirt.

If you had, you would have shaken him like a ragdoll and demanded he tell you everything he knows. Instead, you did your best to remain calm as you stared back at him and the look of smug self-satisfaction he suddenly had plastered across his face.  

For some reason, it made you think of the message you’d promised to take back out of the woods last week.

“Tell the smug bastard to mind his own business,” Eddie said, and you didn’t, because Gareth never asked you how it went. He just gave you a sly smug look, the same one he was currently giving you right there in the hallway five days later. 

“Oh,” You said, feeling about as casual as a heart attack, “Is Eddie going to be there?” 

Your voice hitched and wavered as you did your best to casually skip over his name. You were cool, calm, collected, and definitely not internally shrieking with the sudden potential of a “part two” of last Thursday…

The potent spike of desperation that thought sent rocketing through your midsection was enough to drive color bleeding up into your cheeks and a cold sweat beading across your brow.

It is a reaction you are certain Gareth was not unwise to as he continued without missing a beat. 

“Yeah, he’s our frontman,” He explained, knowing full well what he was doing dropping that kind of information, “Technically it’s his band – he started it back when he was in Middle School or something,” 

Well, put me in a fucking chokehold why don’t you? Something inside of you screamed to have had such a treasure trove of lore opened up to you.

Like the blessed hand of deus-ex-machina — cheap bitch that she is — opportunity comes a-knocking.

A personal invitation has been extended to you and you’ve never been more anxious, because you? 

At a rock show? 

At the Hideout? 

Who the hell do you think you are? You’ve never been to a concert – which is not an astounding statement to make in and of itself considering your inclination toward introversion – so you have no idea what to expect.

There are a great many things you’ve never done. For instance: you’ve never lied to your parents to get out of babysitting, so you can sneak off and go to a rock concert in a dingy dive bar you’re not legally old enough to get into, to see a boy you are strictly forbidden from speaking to.  

You’ve got no business being involved with any of that and as the school day came to a close and the final pieces of your plan steadily fell into place, you had to ask yourself whether you were seriously going to go to such lengths, just to see Eddie?

The answer was a resounding yes. 

You’re going to see Corroded Coffin perform tonight if it kills you.

As you stand there looking back at yourself in the mirror, dressed in the fifth outfit you’ve tried on in as many minutes, you begin to wonder if it might just do that.  

Your parents have been gone less than five minutes, and you’re already getting cold feet.

Yet another thing you’ve never done is try to approximate dressing to impress someone, let alone the boy you regularly spend your nights and mornings fantasizing over with all the ravenous fervor of a pack of hungry wolves.

You have no idea where to start. 

What are you supposed to wear to a rock show in a dingy dive bar? Jeans and a band-tee, maybe? And if so, what kind of jeans, and which band-tee?

It occurs to you that you ought to try and match the vibe of the band, but you have no idea whether they skew toward Credence Clearwater Revival or Judas Priest. 

Then again, with a name like Corroded Coffin, you can’t help but feel it is probably the latter, but you’ve been wrong before. 

So, maybe jeans and a t-shirt is too casual and you ought to try something a little more risqué. 

Maybe a little denim skirt and the pair of ripped nylons you haven’t gotten around to throwing out… or is that too risqué? How exactly does one strike the right balance between sultry and slutty without outright screaming “I want to feel you in my guts?”

You remember then how you once skimmed an article in Cosmopolitan Magazine about the prospective power of underwear, so you go digging through your top dresser drawer and are very quickly dismayed to find that you don’t have a hidden stash of lacy panties carefully concealed beneath your days-of-the-week underwear. 

Of course, the fact that you’re even considering what kind of underwear you ought to be wearing tonight on the very far-off chance that someone is going to see them is enough to send you into a fit of hot-faced embarrassment. 

No, not just anyone – the fact that you’re considering the far-off chance that Eddie Munson is going to see what kind of underwear you’re wearing is almost enough to give you heart palpitations. 

Christ on a fucking bike.  

And then just like that, you’re imagining how gentle he’d be. 

Laying you back on a tufted leather couch as he kneels before you and reaches up with long, dexterous fingers to unbutton your jeans — should you wear jeans tonight? — and carefully, oh so gently, peels them down your legs at an agonizing pace while puffs of warm breath fan the bare skin at the top of your thighs. 

Then again maybe not, maybe he’ll be fast and rough with you. Maybe he’ll manhandle you and throw you around like a doll, and you’ll like it.

Crowding you against the cold brick of a wall and holding you there, his body pressed flush against your back as stone bites your palms and the side of your face. You gasp when he tears at the back seam of your skirt — oh, okay so you are wearing the skirt — ripping both it and your nylons in half, exposing you to the cold air and the hard strike of his palm as he brings it down on the tender skin of your— 

You’re blushing so violently that you have to go to your hall bath and splash cold water on your face. Even after you’ve calmed enough to wander back to the black hole of mess that is your bedroom, you still have no idea what to wear. 

It’s times like this that you curse Carol for shirking her duties as your best friend. Between the two of you, she’s the expert at dressing to attract male attention, she ought to be here helping you with something like this. 

But she’s not here, she’s sitting out at the pool at Steve Harrington’s playing tonsil hockey with Tommy. That’s where you ought to be, too – sitting at the pool, trying to look anywhere but at them, going at it.

That’s where you belong, in Carol’s shadow or perched on the plush sofa at the Henderson’s with your knees up and Speed Racer reruns steadily turning your brain into soup.

It occurs to you that you might be a bad person, or at least a very selfish one – if you’re going to skip out on Dustin like this, you might as well do it to hang out with your friends, not to try and carve out a brand-new cherry-flavored personality for yourself in a crowd you don’t belong to.

You’re not equipped for something like this. You have no business with rock shows and dive bars and people like Eddie Munson – you’re just a boring, midwestern babysitter from a town no one has ever heard of, and you would do well to remember that there is no changing lanes in a place like Hawkins. 

You’re just about ready to admit defeat and march yourself across the street with your tail tucked firmly between your legs when you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. 

Plain-Jane, boring little you, with the same haircut you’ve always had, same silhouette, same clothes, same as it ever was, and suddenly you can’t stop thinking about what Eddie said to you out in the woods…

“You’re not what I expected…” He’d said, twisting the rings on his thick fingers and looking at you so wistfully, in a way you’d convinced yourself was full of hope and an expectation you desperately wanted to meet.

You still want it. You want so badly to be the girl he expects to see at the show tonight, not some trussed-up idealized version of what you imagine might impress him. 

He likes you for you, after all, just the way you are, and it’s enough to stoke the fires of your courage, even if it doesn’t help you decide between the jeans and the skirt. 

By the time you finally throw something on that you’re halfway happy with, you’ve spent too much time wondering about hypotheticals and outfits and whether– in the event of an intimate collision – you would actually like to be spanked. Before you know it, you’re running late. 

You’ve almost convinced yourself that it’s fashionably so as you snatch up your keys, fly out of the house, and down your front steps. All the coolest people are fashionably late … at least that’s what Cosmopolitan Magazine says.

It’s only a short jaunt down Cornwallis to the Hideout, and when you get there, there is a semi-shitty Chevrolet van parked crooked across two spaces with the back doors flung open wide. 

It’s vaguely familiar, the way all vans of its type are, though perhaps you only think you’ve seen it before because of the posse of boys meandering around it, moving gear between the vehicle and the curb. 

Your headlights briefly illuminate the familiar faces of the group before passing them over as you pull into the first parking spot you see.

There is Gareth, of course, alongside Adam and Jeff, who you only actually know by reputation and the quick debriefing of the band he’d given you earlier that afternoon, but you cannot help but notice that there is conspicuously no sign of Eddie among them. 

You try not to be too immediately disappointed by that as you kill the engine and unbuckle your seatbelt.

Oh, will you relax already? A voice chides you from somewhere in the back of your mind. Just because you didn’t see him doesn’t mean he’s not here.

Across the tiny lot, Gareth drops the end of the amp he’s got propped between himself and Adam (you think) and skips over to meet you as you steal one final look at yourself in the inset mirror of your sun visor.

You’re not a natural when it comes to applying makeup — yet another thing you could have used Carol’s help with tonight — but you did your best to look presentable.

You imagine if there is anything glaringly clownish about the way you look, it will be easily obscured by the dark and dingy atmosphere of the venue. Bar. Whatever.  

And then the crisp November evening air comes rushing in to flash freeze you with goosebumps as Gareth opens your driver's side door and stands practically bouncing on his toes with excitement. 

You brace yourself against the cold and suddenly cannot imagine trying to endure sitting out at the Harrington’s pool on a night like this. 

“You made it!” Gareth cries as you slide out of your trusty little Toyota Corolla and it strikes you with just how nice it is to have someone glad to see you show up for once. 

Your friends are typically less enthusiastic about that. 

Still, you don’t want to appear overly eager, so you can’t help but try and mask it by pulling a face – you’d told him you’d be there, after all. 

“Was that ever in doubt?” You ask, shouldering your bag.

You shut the door and twist your keys in the lock before quickly stashing them. 

“Well, you never know.” Gareth says, shrugging, “People get busy.” 

Yeah, and people also bend over backward to get out of prior obligations to keep their word. 

And then, you find yourself wondering if it’s totally weird that you jumped through so many hoops just to make sure you could keep yours. 

Lying to your parents, lying to Mrs. Henderson, lying to Carol (who called you ten minutes before you left and demanded once more that you come out before cursing you when you declined again).

Somehow you can’t help but get the sense that if anyone knew, if anyone could have been a fly on the wall of your life this afternoon, you might come across as desperate, especially considering you could take or leave the band. 

You’d gone through all that effort just to see Eddie, who so far as you can tell is not even here.

Shit — you’re starting to wonder if tonight is going to be a huge bummer when Gareth brings you back. 

“Come over and meet the guys,” he says eagerly with a hand at your elbow to guide you across the darkened pavement. 

Every step leads you closer to the van, to the band, to the impending night, and you find yourself second-guessing your outfit for the umpteenth time that day. You wonder if you’re underdressed, and whether you should have cowboyed up and opted for the skirt, which you’d decided was a bit much for the occasion.

Was it the skirt or the fantasy that went with it? 

The world may never know.

“Guys!” Gareth calls once you get within distance, “You know–” when he says your name, their heads snap to tandem attention in a way that reminds you of meerkats.

It might have been funny if it wasn’t for the way they stand there gawping at you, eyes big as dinner plates and out on stalks. 

The silence that hangs between you is deafening, and standing there under such intense scrutiny you can’t help but feel suddenly like you’ve made a terrible mistake.

You twist your fingers out of nervous habit and shift from foot to foot, wondering if you’re allowed to be here, or whether Gareth remembered to mention that he’d invited you out tonight.

“Well, say something, for Christ’s sake,” Gareth says through his teeth. 

“Oh, r-right… hi–” Jeff stammers, tripping over your name like it’s a hot coal sitting on his tongue.

Adam is not so smooth.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, like he absolutely cannot fathom that you, of all people would coincidentally be here at the same time as them, and certainly not for their benefit. 

It makes you feel frighteningly out of place and you have to force yourself to put down roots to stop yourself from turning right around and going back to your car. 

Before Gareth can finish telling him to shut the fuck up, a figure appears from the shadowy depths of the van and your lungs go flat. 

Lo and behold — Eddie Munson, in the flesh. 

Just the sight of him makes every part of your brain light up like a cathedral and chant his name as if it were singing Hallelujah. 

Eddie Eddie Eddie!

He’s halfway through some tirade and stumbling over a thick black cord that he has somehow become hopelessly tangled in.

“Hey – you assholes are doing a lot of standing around and yapping for–” he is saying before he looks up, sees you, and cuts himself off with a startled yelp of your name.

Despite the semi-comical octave to which he speaks your name, your insides flood with warmth as he practically falls out of the van. He skips over, dragging what you quickly come to realize is a microphone with him in his simultaneous attempt to free himself and close the distance between you.

It goes about as well as anyone could expect.

Before you know it, you’re standing toe to toe in the span of a heartbeat, and like a balm to your worries, you forget that you were ever nervous about being here tonight. You forget the awkwardness of Gareth’s friends, your stress over your outfit, and the lengths you went to be here, because here he is, staring back at you like everything else has melted away. 

All is once again right in the world. 

“Hi!” He says, quickly wiping his grimy hands down the front of the ridiculously tight jeans he’s wearing, the ones you’re desperately trying not to notice or wonder just how he’d managed to get into. 

“Hi, Eddie,” You purr, feeling the muscles in your cheeks already beginning to pull for how wide you’re smiling at him. 

Eddie Eddie Eddie. 

Had you been looking, you might have noticed the way the rest of the band was watching you, exchanging looks of varying degrees, throwing elbows and shushing each other, but you’re not looking, not at anything but the beautiful boy standing before you. 

His hair is wild, like always, but tonight Eddie’s got what looks like dark kohl liner smudged messily around his eyes and half rubbed off, like he’d tried something new and immediately second guessed it. It’s so incredibly endearing that it makes your heart throb in the stupid cupid fashion you’ve been chasing ever since that Thursday in the woods. 

Your veins flood with ecstasy and just like that, you’ve got the fix you’ve been itching for all week. 

With his tight jeans, the thick studded belt bursting out of its loops, all his chains and rings, steel-toed boots, and the faded band tee cropped at the waist and shoulders you can see him wearing underneath his jacket, he looks like something off the cover of Rolling Stone Magazine.

He’s dressed like the guy who would push you up against the wall and rip your skirt off, and you’ve never felt more like a stupid girl with a silly little crush than you do now.

It might almost be intimidating if it weren’t for the way that he’s looking right back at you, as if you hung the moon and the stars and were personally responsible for the shining magic of the cosmos. 

Like the guy who would take his time unbuttoning your jeans. 

You look at him, and he looks right back at you, and you feel something begin to flutter in the space behind your lungs — something warm and frantic, like the beating of a tiny bird’s wings. 

Right now, standing in this parking lot, you could be the only two people in the world, and you’d be just fine with it. 

And then, there is a cough, a conspicuously cleared throat, and the spell is broken.

Eddie shakes his head, like waking from a trance and simultaneously pulling you from yours. 

“What - uh- what are you doing here?” He asks – it hits you like a fist to the gut. “Not that it isn’t great to see you… it’s just— I didn't expect to see you.”

Oh.

You can feel the corners of your mouth twitch where your smile begins to falter. 

“I came to see your show,” You say quietly, fighting a losing battle against the tide of your nerves as they come rushing back in with enough force to sweep you under.

Eddie’s dark ringed eyes go wide and his mouth falls open, and you feel a cold lump drop into the pit of your stomach with a hollow thump. 

“You did?” he gasps, voice lilting up into that comical octave again, “Really?”

Oh, great. So, nobody knew you were coming.

For as mortifying as that is, it doesn’t sting half as badly as the disappointment battering you over how you’d spent your afternoon thinking Eddie was as excited to see you as you were to see him.

He didn’t even know you were coming — stupid Gareth. 

Suddenly, your subconscious is whispering horrible things to you: maybe he doesn’t like you as much as he’d originally let on. Maybe that moment you shared out in the woods was all in your head, maybe you’d misread the signs and he was just being nice for the sake of the loser virgin, tripping over herself to try and win the affections of the local drug dealer.

It makes you feel particularly stupid about how you’d sat there at a soggy picnic bench out in the woods, desperately waiting for Eddie to kiss you – why the fuck would he kiss you? He doesn’t even know you.   

You can’t even touch how embarrassed you are about how much time you’d spent fantasizing about him undressing you. 

Christ, you’re pathetic. But you’re also here, and you ought to at least try to make an effort to appear like you’re not the socially inept loser everybody seems to think you are.

“Oh, y-yeah… I mean, it’s no big deal.” you fumble to explain, gesturing vaguely like it’s going to help smooth over the growing awkwardness of this moment

Maybe if you keep talking, nobody will get the chance to say anything that sounds too much like a rejection.  

You give your best approximation of a casual shrug and continue.

“Gareth invited me.” You say, and somehow it feels oddly accusatory, “He said it was cool… unless…”

Uncertainty makes you strangely brave, brave enough to lean into the awkwardness of the moment at least – if there’s one thing you’ve learned after years of being Carol’s punching bag, it’s that if you can’t beat the joke, join in.

“…Unless?” Eddie prompts.

You furrow your brow.

“Unless he conveniently failed to mention that I was coming?”

Of course, the moment your gaze snaps over to regard him with a harsh, unforgiving glare is when Gareth conveniently decides it’s time to get back to hauling gear.

With a fistful of each of their shirts, he drags the others away, spouting some bullshit about “call times” and “sound check” and leaves you standing there with Eddie in the chasm of the awkward silence fighting tooth and nail to settle snugly between you.

You refuse to give it the satisfaction as you watch them retreat, and you make a displeased sound.

Bastard coward sons of bitches. A pox on all their houses.

“Well,” you start, “This is awkward, I don’t mind saying…” 

Once the rest of the band has circled around to disappear beyond the far side of the van, you begin to feel the faintest hint of that same warmth from the woods settling over you, and you take a chance to lean into Eddie’s space. 

“Hey, listen,” you say dropping your tone, “It was great seeing you — really, it was … but if it’s totally weird that I’m here I can take off—”

“Oh, no!” Eddie says a tad too loud. His voice rings out and echoes across the empty spaces before he reigns his enthusiasm in, “No – it’s not weird! You should totally stay!”

“Really?”

“Yeah, for sure. You should definitely stay, right guys?” You look just in time to see a nondescript door set into a wall of the bar slamming shut, leaving the two of you alone in the cold, “…Whatever, forget those assholes — I’m glad you’re here.” 

And there you go grinning your face off again.

“You are?”

“Yeah, are you kidding? It’s awesome to see you. Also, nobody’s ever actually come to see us play, so that makes you the closest thing to a fan we’ve got.” 

“Oh, good.” You say. 

“Great.” 

“Excellent.” 

“Fan-tastic.” He says, stretching the word lyrically and moving to shut the back doors of the van with a hard THUNK, “Only you gotta do something for me if you’re gonna stick around,”

You move quickly to fall into step as Eddie starts toward the side door set in between a stack of pallets and a dumpster. The same one the others had only just slipped through. 

“What’s that?” You ask, doing your best to pretend that you don’t smell the toxic waste that is bar trash permeating the air.  

He yanks the door open and reveals the murky interior of the Hideout, waiting just beyond like the portal to another world. 

The smell of wet trash is quickly overwhelmed by the strong tang of smoke and alcohol, hitting you in a wave of thick, roiling air. You grit your teeth as it washes over you, accompanied by the tinny din of a Jimmy Buffett song playing over the jukebox.

“You have to promise you’re gonna cheer super loud to balance out all the booing,” he says, holding the door open for you, “We aren’t exactly what you’d call popular with the local wildlife.”

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from telling him that Gareth already warned you of that during his earlier sales pitch. 

Something along the lines of “we’re terrible, please come see us play,” had been uttered as a backdrop to your giggling over learning the name of the band, back when it was only a silly anecdote and you knew nothing of the gravity of the invitation. 

You banish the thought to the back of your mind and bite down harder on your cheek to try and distract from the way you can feel your heart beating against your ribs as Eddie’s hand comes up to hover at the small of your back, ushering you inside. 

“I can do that.” You say with a quick nod.

“Perfect – after you, M’lady.” 

You almost don’t remember to be worried about getting into the bar when Eddie guides you over the threshold with a short, sweeping gesture. 

The side door deposits you at the far end of the bar, and despite only the slightest change in atmosphere, it takes your eyes a moment to adjust to the neon signage and overhead bulbs.

All your fears of bouncers and fake IDs dissipate when you arrive and there is no one waiting to card you on the other side. 

You do your best to breathe as subtle a sigh of relief as you can, because you made it, you’re in, whatever that means for the rest of your night.  

The Hideout is a full-on hick dive, as much as you expected. Booth seating, pool tables, and the vaguest suggestion of a bandstand in the far back corner next to the jukebox where you finally see Gareth and the others again. They’re busying themselves with the task of setting up amps and instruments beneath a slapdash Corroded Coffin banner hung crookedly over the drumkit. 

It’s clearly homemade and looks very much like it has been spray painted, black over red on a stained white bed sheet. It’s incredibly tacky in the most endearing way.

The bar is not too terribly full for seven-forty-five on a Tuesday night, though in taking in the faces of the blue-collar working-class patrons, the general décor, and the type of music shuffling through the jukebox as the track turns over to play Loretta Lynn, you can’t help but feel that this is not really their crowd.

Not really your crowd, you tell yourself, not that you have the experience to know such a thing. 

If you thought you felt out of place before, standing among the band, the feeling is amplified tenfold as you begin to notice the way half a dozen people have turned around to gawp curiously at you. 

Of course, it doesn’t occur to you that the reason they’re staring is that you’re standing there tucked in against Eddie Munson, who you also had not realized was standing so close to you.

You erupt into a fever of goosebumps as you rock back on your heels and feel the contours of his chest graze your shoulder blades. Eddie’s hand comes up to grip you kindly by the shoulder as he guides you further into the dingy building and starts to give you the rundown. 

You do your best to focus on his words to keep yourself grounded, trying to assure yourself that you’re allowed to be here. 

If he’s not nervous, you’re not nervous.

“We’re gonna go on soonish,” he says, depositing you at an empty barstool, separated from where a handful of patrons sit nursing their drinks, “– we’ll probably play for like half an hour, maybe longer depending on how many songs they let us play.”

“How many songs do they usually let you play?” You ask, having to project your voice to be heard over the din of the bar.

You do your best to hop up onto the stool in a way that is cool and elegant as you have almost perfected with your squat metal seat back in Mr. Kapz’s class. This one is taller than you’d estimated, however, and you immediately find yourself struggling to get up over the lip of the polished wood.

Eddie, ever the gentleman, doesn’t hesitate to help you up and steady you. 

“Three or four,” He hums without missing a beat. “Our record is six, but that was only one time, so I wouldn’t hold my breath for that many with this crowd. Also, don’t be surprised if they pull the plug on us — like, literally kill the power.”

“You’re kidding…”

“It’s no big deal, it’s just something they like to do in this fine establishment.”

He says it like it's funny, but suddenly you can’t help but think back to Gareth’s plea that you come and watch them play. For the first time since he’d invited you that afternoon, you are suddenly struck wondering just what you have really gotten yourself into – you have no idea what kind of music they play, whether they’re halfway decent or as terrible as Gareth let on.

You have to work to remind yourself that, regardless of the quality of Corroded Coffin, you’re here to support your friends. 

Which is only really half true – you’re here for Eddie.

You’re watching him closely when another body appears at his side and claps a loud, forceful hand down on his shoulder. Your heart spasms in tandem with the way Eddie jumps under the sudden contact, and you brace yourself for whatever is coming as his head whips around to address his assailant. 

Then, much to your patent relief, his features light up and his face splits into a wide grin. 

“Oh, hey! Wayne!” He yelps with a rush of boyish excitement, “What’re you doing here? Are you gonna watch us play?”

The man – evidently Wayne – wheezes out a chuckle that is a little too sarcastic to be kind before answering, speaking in a thick Appalachian drawl that is bizarrely out of place in this town. 

“I get enough of y’all’s music at home, thanks very much. Just sayin’ hi on my way out,” he rasps, squeezing Eddie’s shoulder with an unmistakable affection before turning his bright blue eyes on you, “Who’s yer friend?”

Eddie makes quick introductions, and once names have been traded back and forth, Wayne touches the brim of his faded ballcap. 

“Pleased to meet you,”

“Oh – sure. I mean, likewise,” you stammer, stiffening your spine to keep yourself from wilting under the intensity of the man’s gaze.

It’s almost intrusive, and makes you feel like you need to go home and put on another layer of clothing just to keep him from seeing your deepest, darkest, inner most thoughts and feelings. 

X-ray specs got nothing on this man’s penatrative gaze, and when it's just about enough to send you crawling out of your skin, then there goes Eddie saving your life again.

“Isn’t it bad luck to wear a hat indoors?” He asks with a mischievous smirk.

Wayne catches him expertly by the wrist as he reaches for the hat, like he’s a certified expert at avoiding such a motion, and guides Eddie’s ring-bedecked digits safely away from his headwear.

“Bad luck to put a hat on a bed.” Wayne corrects, “Bad luck to open an umbrella indoors.”

Eddie snorts as he takes his hand back and nudges you with his elbow, gentlemanly letting you in on the joke. 

“Wayne’s a nut for that kinda stuff.” He says, gesturing to the older man with no small amount of humor, like it’s simply the goofiest thing anyone has ever heard. “Real superstitious,”

It doesn’t feel mean, so much as a deep set rapport built over a lifetime of back and forth like this. 

Wayne makes a thick, gravelly sound in the back of his throat which you recognize as the beginning rattle of a smoker’s cough. 

“Least I know where the bad luck’s comin’ from when it shows up,” The man hums, “Anyways. What time are y’all goin’ on?”

“In a few minutes. Why?”

In lieu of answering, Wayne just hums again, thoughtfully so this time. Then that bright gaze slides back over to you.  

“They got earplugs behind the bar if you ask for ‘em,” Wayne says with a clipped gesture, “Just so’s you know.” 

“Hey—!” Eddie begins with all the moody indignance of a child.

Wayne cuts him off with raised hands, begging no offense. 

“Just tryin’ to be neighborly in case yer friend don’t know what she’s gettin’ into,” He stresses, “Y’ever heard these fellers play?” 

“Uh, well— no, actually, I—” you start,

Wayne’s brows jump. 

“Like skinnin’ a cat,” 

It sends you right back to the incident in the quad the week before, to what Eddie had said about Carol’s screeching tirade, and suddenly the look Wayne is giving you is so familiar it’s almost eerie.

You realize with a start that it’s the exact same look Eddie gave you out in the quad.

The resemblance is uncanny. The joke, however, does not land.

“Well, it was nice seeing you, Wayne,” Eddie fumes, clapping the man on the shoulder in a stilted mirror image of the way he’d done a moment before and maneuvering him past you.

If you didn’t know better, you might have said that the faintest flush of color had bled into Eddie’s cheeks, but you tell yourself you don’t as he pushes Wayne past you and attempts to maneuver him out. 

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” 

Wayne stops short then, turns, and gives Eddie a very stern look, thrusting a finger up at him in a way that feels oddly paternal as he warns him with a low utterance of, “Hey now,”.

You know that look well enough from having seen it on your father. It means “watch your tone”, and it does the job it’s meant to.

You watch as Eddie puts his hands up and retreats a step, and the tension dissipates before it’s even had the chance to settle. 

 Suddenly, they’re friends again and your brain is crawling out of your skull with curiosity over who this man is to Eddie – what a strange dynamic they have, decidedly charged with something but clearly softened by a kind of underlying affection.

Almost like family – exactly like family, you realize. 

If you didn’t know better, you might almost guess that this man was Eddie’s father, but of course that couldn’t be true, because you know exactly where Al Munson is meant to be, and it’s not here at the Hideout.  

After a quick back and forth that you only catch bits and pieces of, Wayne gives you one last parting look, brows jumping.

“I’m serious about them earplugs.” He says, then claps Eddie on the back as he takes his leave. “See you at home, Bud,”

“Yeah, okay… later.” He mutters – he gestures after the man once he’s gone, “My uncle.” Eddie explains, and suddenly everything makes a little more sense.

You just had the pleasure of meeting the elusive other Munson, who you’d heard talk of around town, but whose reputation (or lack thereof) has been vastly overshadowed by the likes of his brother and nephew.   

“He seems nice.” You offer for lack of anything better to say. 

“Yeah, he thinks he’s real funny with those earplugs – weird seeing him here though, he usually drinks out at The Attic on — hey, what’s the matter?” Eddie asks suddenly, brows creeping toward one another to form a deep crease of concern between them, “You’re not scared are you?” 

You swallow hard and try not to stare at him, suddenly backed in a multicolor glow as the stage lights come on, leaving him looking like some kind of ethereal rock god. 

“No.” You lie. 

Eddie grins at you like he knows you’re fibbing, and he reaches up to touch your arm. 

You do your best to suppress a shiver under the way he gently squeezes you there.

“Hey, you showing up like this? Biggest thing anybody’s ever done for me. Y’think I’d let anything happen to you after that?”

He barely gives you time to read into the sentiment before something over your head draws his attention and the moment ends. 

“Anyway, you’re perfectly safe. Laverne here’s gonna look after you,” He gestures to the space behind you, “Right Laverne?” 

You turn to see the woman behind the bar that he is speaking to, face split into that big, winning smile of his — a little sleazier than it was a moment before — and are suddenly struck by the knowledge that this is the second person Eddie has introduced you to in this place in less than two minutes. 

You catch yourself wondering just how much time he spends skulking around this bar as a tall, middle-aged woman with a big cloud of frizzy hair dyed a red so deep it’s nearly purple comes into view.

Laverne — the bartender, evidently.

She’s got a blown-out tattoo on her bicep that you think must have been a snake at one point in time, and her massive, freckled breasts are just about spilling out of the top of her too-tight tank top, stretching the name of the bar until it’s almost illegible. She looks entirely too rock and roll for this place, like some kind of a transplant from a seedy biker joint on the Sunset Strip.

By the way she’s glaring at Eddie, you can tell that she is immune to his attempts at charm.

“I don’t pay you to stand around flirting.” Laverne drawls, jerking her thumb over her shoulder toward what you can only imagine is the back of house, “An’ you left a whole pile’a dishes stacked up back there when you ran out to put yer makeup on.”

Eddie’s grin wavers under the impromptu lecture and you can’t help but feel your insides squirm on his behalf.

“Gee, Laverne, I never knew you liked me so much,” he tries, but she is not done. 

“Don’t you think for one second I’m gonna cover yer ass so’s you can cut out early an’ go diddle yourself or whatever it is you do on your own time. When yer here, yer on my time, an’ I don’t appreciate my time bein’ wasted,  so, who d’you reckon is gonna do them dishes, Junior?”

All the sleazy charm ekes right out of him and you watch as Eddie goes white as a sheet. 

“Green around the gills” is what a distant relative of yours would have called the look on his face, and you can’t say you disagree.  

You have to resist the urge to reach out and put a steadying hand on him, purely on babysitting instinct, because if you didn’t know any better – which you don’t – you’d think he was about to keel over, and it’s almost startling.

Based on his schooltime bravado, part of you imagines Eddie would be made of stronger stuff in the face of such ire, but you’re quickly beginning to understand that the Eddie you know from school is not an accurate depiction of the man behind the mask. Then again, you’re not certain you know anyone who would be able to stand there and take a dressing down like that, so maybe Eddie is made of that elusive “stronger stuff” after all.

Suddenly, you can’t help but imagine what would have happened in the alternate universe where Carol found herself here with you, standing in his place. You’d like to see her try running her mouth then, face to face with the likes of Madam Hideout. 

Back in the real world, Eddie casts a wary gaze in your direction before answering the woman who you have quickly come to realize is his boss. 

“I’ll do ‘em after,” he mumbles, suddenly much less an ethereal rock god and more a sullen child.

The muscle in Laverne’s jaw flexes as she grits her teeth, and you can suddenly see her right at home standing behind a great oak bar in a saloon, eyes shaded in a big Stetson, spitting a fat gob of dark, rotten chaw to the sawdust floor as she chews through her thick Texan drawl. 

“They shoulda been done b’fore you punched out.” She spits in the tobacco-less, non-Old West version of herself. 

“I’ll do them after, Laverne.” Eddie insists, sliding back into the boyish indignance from before. 

She rolls her eyes and stalks off, muttering something unintelligibly rude as she goes, and an indiscernible emotion wells painfully in your chest. It is deeply offended on Eddie’s behalf, whatever it is, and moves you to want to protect him, though you don’t know how you would manage to do that. 

You don’t typically feel this way about anyone over the age of twelve, and don’t know whether to try and pick a fight with Laverne or to drag Eddie out to the parking lot where you’ll be safe from the ire of rude bartenders – that’s what you would have done with Dustin had you encountered a bully somewhere out in the wild, but somehow you can’t imagine either scenario going over well with Eddie swapped for Dustin. 

The lack of options leaves you paralyzed, and by the time Eddie is talking again, you’ve gone and said nothing in his defense. 

The indignant emotion deflates and leaves you feeling cold and guilty.

“Yeah, that Laverne…” he says, “She’s a real peach.”

You watch the woman saunter to lean over the end of the bar furthest from you, and once you are almost certain she is out of earshot, you lean in close.   

“Do you work here?” You ask in a stage whisper, if only to be heard over the din of the music and murmuring conversations. 

Eddie’s gaze snaps back down to you and you watch as he grows suddenly and strangely shy. You can see his guard cautiously slipping into place as he reaches up to scratch at the back of his neck and offers you a lopsided shrug. 

“Few nights a week, yeah.” He admits, almost like he’s embarrassed to have been caught in the conundrum of playing a set in the place where he works, “Pays the bills, y’know?” 

You wonder how much of the interaction with Wayne followed directly by the one with Laverne is coloring this moment, and you’re mortified to have put him in this situation.

If you weren’t here, he would be up on the bandstand with the rest of the guys instead of looking after you, and both interactions may very well have been avoided entirely. Suddenly, you’re desperate to take responsibility for your presence and put him at ease. 

“That’s cool.” You tell him, and for once, it is exactly the right thing to say.  

Eddie immediately brightens. 

“You think so?” He asks.

You nod, because if you’re not nervous, then he doesn’t have to be, right? Suddenly, this interaction feels a lot like babysitting, and you take no small amount of comfort in the familiarity of it, even if Eddie is most certainly the one babysitting you here at the bar. 

“Totally! You’re basically getting paid to play a gig every week – do you know how many bands would kill for that?” 

Eddie’s face splits up into that big, toothy grin.

“Yeah, exactly!” He starts before second-guessing his tone and attempting to reign in his enthusiasm, “I mean – hey, it’s not Saturday night at the Garden, but a gig’s a gig. At least until we can get the band off the ground and get a record–” 

Over the rumble of the bar, you hear somebody shouting from the direction of the bandstand – Jeff, you think. His voice is laced with annoyance as if this is the third or fourth time he’s called Eddie, and he is quickly losing his patience.

“MUNSON!” He shouts, “LET’S GO!”

Eddie twists at the sound of his name and you watch as he pulls a face, almost like he’d forgotten there was a greater purpose to being here other than standing around chatting you up at the bar.

“Whoopsie – guess that’s my cue.” He says, shrugging out of his jacket as he turns back to you, “Hold on to this for me, will you?”

Your heart rockets up into your throat and you hope that Eddie can’t see how your fingers are trembling as you accept his jacket and hold it against you.

You clench your teeth to keep something cheesy from floating up past your lips like you’ll guard it with your life.  

You think you must be making a face, then, one Eddie mistakes for anxiety as he gives you a soft look and his voice turns gentle. 

“You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.” He assures you, “You’re with the band, remember? Fan numero uno.”

He raises a finger to emphasize the notion, and you nod, watching him turn and trying to beat back the spike of fear that surges in you when he leaves you sitting at the bar. 

He’s fine if you’re fine, and you’re fine if he’s fine, but only so long as you’re enveloped in the safety blanket of his presence – but you remind yourself that you’re a big girl.

If you can lie to everyone you know and sneak out of the house to slip into a bar to see a band, you can sit alone in a room full of strangers for a few minutes before the band starts to play. 

And yet, sitting there, watching Eddie move into the crowd, you’re suddenly struck with the sensation of how stridently you don’t want to be left alone in this place where you so clearly don’t belong. But you don’t have to be so overt about it, so you shout at Eddie’s back in the far-off hope that it will make him turn around and look at you once more. 

“Y’know, you keep saying that,” you start, “But I haven’t even heard you play!”

He turns on his heel and shoots you full of holes with that big, goofy grin of his. 

“Oh man, you’re gonna love us!” He calls back, and you can’t help but snort out an undainty laughter. 

“That’s not what Gareth said!” 

Eddie pulls a face and cups a hand at his ear like he didn’t hear you before throwing a shrug and disappearing into the throng of people milling about the pool tables. 

You take great comfort in the fact that for as cool as you think he is, you are starting to understand that he is an incredible dork. That makes things so much easier, especially with how you want so desperately for him to like you as much as you like him. 

And you like him so, so much. 

Too much – it doesn’t feel like just a schoolyard crush anymore, not since the moment you shared out in the woods, and again back in the parking lot, and just now, here at the bar.

Sitting here, with a big dopey look on your face and hearts in your eyes, you think you could very easily fall for Eddie as you watch him jump up onto the bandstand and exchange an indiscernible something with Gareth, grinning wolfishly as he does.  

You’re almost too busy sifting for gems through the last five minutes of conversation to realize what you just told yourself – you think you could fall pretty hard for Eddie Munson.

The thought startles you enough that you have to move to try and escape the way it makes you feel, twisting on the stool to face the bar. You sit there, letting the din of the environment wash over you in sickly waves of overstimulation, and you remind yourself of what Gareth originally assured you about this outing. 

Not like a date. He said. Just as friends. 

In the wake of your most recent revelation, the idea stings just a little bit more than you are prepared to endure.

Then, there is the abrasive sound of a throat being cleared. It’s only then that you look up and find yourself face-to-face with Madam Hideout herself.

Laverne gives you a hard side eye from where she stands at the tap directly to your right, pouring a tall pint of foamy beer.

If you’re blushing, you hope she can’t tell under the deep, colored lighting.

You try to smile at her, but it’s little more than a flattening of your lips as your mouth stretches horizontally, and somehow you know it isn’t coming across as polite as you’d intended. She doesn’t reciprocate.

Behind you, an amp flares with staticky feedback that makes your hair stand on end as someone plugs in a guitar. 

The sound of a dozen disgruntled barflies rumbles through the room as the band finishes setting up, and you find yourself witness to a sudden mass exodus. You twist in your seat again and watch as at least half of the patrons very quickly make their way out into the parking lot, following Wayne Munson’s lead after the fact.

By the time the herd has been thinned, the room is not empty by any means, but you can suddenly see the bandstand at the far end of the room where you couldn’t before. It gives you the perfect vantage of Eddie.

Corroded Coffin has similarly noticed how the room has cleared out, much to their own varying degrees of chagrin. Eddie is fumbling with the strap on his guitar, adjusting the length as he scans the room with a furrowed brow – then, as he finds you, right where he left you, his face splits into that same wide grin.

Suddenly shy under the cast of his attention, you gesture to the state of the room – get a load of these guys – and give an overexaggerated shrug. He responds in kind by sticking his tongue out at you and you feel your insides go tight and squirmy.

You don’t even realize how you’ve been grinning back at him until your face starts to hurt, and as quickly as the spotlight finds you, it’s gone again when Jeff leans over to say something to Eddie, snatching his attention away and leaving you sitting there alone on your stool again.

Brimming with what you would argue is too many feelings to process all at once, you reach around to grip the bar and spin yourself in a tight circle, hoping that maybe a little gravity will help sort out those big scary emotions.

“Quit that spinnin’.” Laverne snaps. “I ain’t moppin’ your little brains up off this floor if you fall.”

“Sorry.” You say immediately, bracing yourself on the bar to stop from going around once more – tragically, it leaves you facing her and the apparent disdain she holds for you, simply by way of association.

You avert your gaze.

Somewhere, you can hear the theme to Cheers playing distantly over the muted rumbling of half a dozen conversations.

…sometimes you wanna go, where everybody knows your name, and they’re always glad you came… 

Some less than others. 

When you work up the courage to chance a look, you find that Laverne is still staring daggers at you. More than that, a cursory glance reveals that most of the people still sitting down the length of the bar are stealing curious looks at you. 

You can feel your throat going dry under the attention of so many strange eyes. It’s not that you’re necessarily an inherently shy person, only that without Eddie to bolster you, the feeling of being somewhere you clearly do not belong is attempting to crush you flat.

You do your best to make yourself as small as humanly possible as the beginning of a beat gets thumped out on the drum set before abruptly stopping.

Soundcheck.

Your mouth is suddenly full of cobwebs, and you muster your courage to steal one more look at Laverne, whose eyes you can still feel burning holes into the top of your skull. 

You peek up at her, hoping her ire will have eased, as if miraculously in the last thirty-seconds you’d done something to earn her respect.

No dice.

“Do you think I could get a coke?” You ask, cringing inwardly as your voice wavers and cracks.

You don’t really want the overpriced, watered-down soda she’s bound to give you, but you’re willing to do anything to distract from how much you stick out among the half-drunk onlookers pressing their faces in on you like kids at the zoo.

Thank God for the shield of Eddie’s jacket, you are once again so thankful you’d foregone the tight little skirt and boots combo.

Laverne gives you a hard look, and you feel a twinge of sudden bravery begin worming its way through your midsection. This time, you stare back at her. 

Then, she throws a dish towel over her shoulder as she makes her way to you, chunky Doc Marten’s thumping hard on the spongy mat behind the bar.

As uncomfortable as you are to be sitting there under her gaze, some nagging part of you at the back of your tongue meets the annoyed twinge steadily rising in you, and together, they wish she would climb down out of your ass already.  

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she pulls the trigger on the soda nozzle and fills a dark red, textured glass to the brim – no ice.

She sets the drink on the bar in front of you with a hard thump and you watch the foam leap up over the brim of the cup and spill down the side before dissipating with a soft hissing. 

Laverne pops a straw into the cup and somehow it feels like an insult, like something Carol would have done. 

You’re supposed to inhale, Dummy! pared down to a simple gesture with that same patent disdain. 

Still, you’re nothing if not fatally imbued with unflinching manners, and the words are tumbling out over your lips before you can stop them.

“Thank you,” you mumble, and the nagging little voice on the back of your tongue cries out at your treachery. 

Laverne grunts out a response and quirks a thin, penciled brow at you. 

It takes her forever to speak, and you wish the band would just start playing already so that you would have an excuse to turn your back to her.

“The Chief’s been known to frequent this place,” she begins, and in a brief moment of deep confusion, all you can do is stare at her, waiting for her to clarify, “Of Police.”

You have no idea what to do with that information.

“Oh,” you say dumbly, “You don’t say,”

She nods.

“Might even be inclined to call him a regular customer,” 

Somehow, you can’t help but get the sense that it’s less a statement of fact than it is a threat, and if that is the case, you can’t deny that it’s more or less effective.

The last thing you need right now is to find yourself sitting, wilting under the gaze of Chief Hopper while he reads you the riot act and lists in detail everything you’ve ever done to make you such a terrible person — faking sickness and sneaking out to go and see a boy you’re sweet on in a bar you’re not old enough to be sitting in when by all rights you should be sitting on the Henderson’s couch watching He-Man.  

For lack of a better response, you twist idly on your chair, nice and slow so Laverne can see you do it and come all the way back around to the other side.

The phrase, “if looks could kill” passes through your mind for a brief, yet terrifying second – something in the back of your mind is inexorably calm as it assures you that you haven’t done anything wrong. 

You’re supposed to be here. You’re with the band, no matter how anyone may happen to feel about that.

Leaning over the bar and taking a long, innocent sip from your straw, you make a show of swallowing, smack your lips, and shrug. 

 “Funny. I don’t see him.”  

In spite of all your affected cool, you feel your guts twinge with anxiety when Laverne levels you with a hard look and crosses her thick, tattooed arms over her generous bosom. Suddenly you’re half worried you’re about to be “bounced” or whatever the official term for being forcibly ejected from a bar is – one more for the list in your long night of firsts. 

Then, in a shocking turn of events, the corner of the woman’s lip twitches in the faintest hint of a smile, violently suppressed, of course. 

You’re oddly pleased, in the way only a goody-two-shoes like yourself can be under the attention of anyone who could even remotely be perceived as a figure of authority. 

“How old are you?” Laverne demands.

Just like that, the twinge blossoms to a nagging feeling of angry defiance, lurking far in the back of your throat. 

Stupid question. You think, biting the inside of your cheek, because it’s not like you’d tried to order a beer. 

“Forty-five.” You say, matter-of-factly, suddenly unable to adjust your tone as you remember how rudely she’d spoken to Eddie before.    

She holds you in that hard, deadpan gaze.

“That’s funny,” She sniffs, “Bet your rock star boyfriend thinks you’re real funny too.” She hurls it at you like a slur and your heart spasms and lurches up into your throat.

“Oh, he’s not my—” but the bartender is already walking away, so you clamp your mouth shut and hum out your annoyance.

You swallow hard.

Boyfriend.

The word clangs around in your ribcage, and you wonder if that’s what people assume when they see you and Eddie together. 

Just like that, you’re feeling breathless again.

No wonder your teachers are all so freaked out – you don’t get the time to worry about that before Eddie’s voice cuts through the room and strikes you square in the back. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’d like to thank you all for coming out tonight–” he says smoothly into the microphone, “Before we start the show, we’d just like to say one thing…” 

You turn in your seat and find yourself immediately locked in his gaze. Even across the room, it sends a chill up your spine and goosebumps flashing across the expanse of your body. 

You’re gripped in the feeling that suddenly, you’re the only two people in this room, that no matter what happens next, it will be for your eyes only, and you’ll cherish that to the end of time. 

Eddie leans in, grips the microphone and looks you dead in the eye.

“This one goes out to all the ladies.”

Oh. Nevermind. 

“Oh, my God,” You say under your breath. 

Boo. Hiss. 

He’s so uncool, you can’t stand how much you like him. 

The strike of sticks on cymbals masks the agonized groan that rumbles throughout the bar and with the first few hard chords, the show begins. 

Corroded Coffin is not the greatest band in the world, but they’re also far from the worst.

It was an over-exaggeration on Gareth’s part to say that they’re terrible; they can carry a tune, they’re mostly on key and in sync, and that’s more than you can say you expected from how you’d been prepared.

You find that they mostly play covers of metal songs – the likes of Judas Priest and Black Sabbath – which garners a general disinterest from the bar, save for one sloppy drunk biker who just about loses his mind when they go into a crunchy rendition of War Pigs. 

You’re certainly losing your mind and falling a little bit harder than you’d expected you would be when you woke up that morning.

Eddie Munson in front of a cafeteria audience is one thing, but Eddie Munson on stage, a real-life honest-to-God stage is another animal entirely. As far as you are concerned, he was born and bred for the stage, and you’re enraptured, watching him move under the lights. The way he grips the neck of his guitar as he teases a melody out of the taught strings and growls into the microphone settles in your bones in a way you know is going to linger for months if not years to come.

It is mesmerizing in the most intoxicating way. If you thought tearing your eyes from him at school was difficult, you’re fairly certain you don’t blink from the start of their set to their less-than-grand finish.

They play a whopping five songs before someone unceremoniously kills the power, just as Eddie had prophesized.

“Bummer.” You hear someone groan out of the dark from the direction of the stage.

Luckily, it’s a total blackout to the whole bar, and not just the stage, saving the band any overt embarrassment in the face of their less-than-adoring public.

Your ears are ringing in the sudden absence of sound and the darkness lingers only a moment before the power comes back on again.

Loggins and Messina are back on the jukebox in an instant, the patrons turn back to their drinks, and just like that, your introduction to Corroded Coffin is cut short, one song shy of their record. 

With the lights on and free from the cloying miasma that can only come from standing in the crowd at a rock show, you manage to claw your way back to your senses enough to remember your parking lot promise.

You surprise even yourself by erupting into a cacophony of thunderous applause, whooping, and hollering just like any self respecting number one fan would do. Then again, if you’re being completely honest, and if the drunk biker hollering unevenly doesn’t put up too much of a fight, you might happily accept the title.

It doesn’t take much effort to shoulder your way through the meager crowd, particularly with the way it is steadily thinning. Evidently, the end to the show was enough to call for an end to the night for a good number of people here at the Hideout.  

You cross the room in a hop, skip, and a jump that deposits you at the foot of the bandstand, where you stand craning your head back nearly to the point of pain just to look up at the object of your affection. 

You hold Eddie’s jacket clutched reverently against your chest and imagine your steadily beating heart imbuing it with all kinds of emotion — super-charging it with what Huey Lewis and the News is now telling you must be the power of love. 

“You didn’t tell me you were good!” You cry, and are almost immediately chagrined.

You’re half deaf from the set and even through your screaming ears, you know you must be shouting. Worse than that is how you would dare to say something so incredibly awkward.

Why can’t you be cool for once in your stupid life?

Eddie is positively slick with sweat, pushing his hair back from his face and grinning again as he comes down to your level.

He drops into a squat you’re half surprised he can manage with just how tight his jeans are — the other half of you is too busy noticing how now that he’s down here, you’re almost nose to nose. 

You try not to stare at his jeans, or the sweat dripping down from his hairline to grace the curve of his cheekbones and drip off the sharp line of his jaw. His shirt has gone semi-translucent and is clinging to his chest like a lover as you force yourself to meet his honey-warm gaze. 

“You guys are great.” You try again, hoping it comes out sounding a little cooler this time around.

No such luck. 

“Yeah? Well, what’d you expect, Sweetheart?” Eddie drawls, showing you his teeth in a way that makes your insides go tight — he tilts his head over to press his ear to his shoulder, “They don’t let just anyone up on this stage, you know.”

“Yes, they do.” Jeff counters from somewhere behind him, and you watch Eddie’s brows come down in aggravation, “Remember when they let that guy do forty minutes of close-up magic?”

Somewhere, very far away, Gareth is shrugging his shoulders from where he still sits, comfortably perched behind his drumkit.

“That guy wasn’t half bad.” he posits, much to the chagrin of his bandmates.

“That dude was wearing a cape.” Eddie scoffs.

“And you’re saying you wouldn’t?” Jeff snorts.

You’re too caught up in the way your heart is beating itself senseless against your ribs to hear the back and forth continue between them because Eddie called you Sweetheart.

Normally, you like to think such a pet name would leave you roiling in disgust, but nothing about the way you feel about Eddie is normal. 

And you’re not being any shade of normal about this. Forget whatever bullshit it says on your birth certificate, forget all the little pet names anyone has ever given you — Eddie Munson reached down and christened you Sweetheart, and as far as you’re concerned, that’s your name now. 

You feel like your head is going to crack open and burst with electric light as the name rattles around and around in your skull until it finds a tight little corner to wedge itself into and stay forever. 

Sweetheart, Sweetheart, Sweetheart.

Sweetheart and Eddie.

Sweetheart Munson. 

It’s so goddamn saccharine you’re almost surprised when your teeth don’t come tumbling out of your head. 

As you get lost further down the road of delusional fancy, the band’s bickering carries on without you. 

“I dunno… d’you guys think we should invest in capes?” Adam posits, and it’s almost enough to send Eddie into apoplectic shock.

“Corroded Coffin does not wear capes!” He snarls, and an intrusive little voice can’t help but beg to differ, because to you, Corroded Coffin sounds exactly like the type of band who would come out on stage wearing capes. 

“At least he had style.” Gareth huffs, “And the crowd liked him a whole lot better than they like us, maybe we can learn something from Magical Marve.” 

“Jesus Christ, you guys — you’re blowing it in front of our number one fan!” Eddie gestures to you as he says it and you blush bright red, suddenly terrified that you’ve been caught with hearts in your eyes as the rest of the band’s attention snaps over to you — their apparent number one fan. 

In a few years, when you would read Misery, you would spend a full week brimming with resentment that Stephen King would dare to suggest that it could be anything but a term of endearment. But that was a thought for the future, and only because he wasn’t there to see Eddie Munson dub you Sweetheart. 

Right here and now, you are just happy to be included. Because it’s like Eddie said before, you're with the band… who is still bickering as they go about the quick and dirty business of breaking down their equipment. 

It takes a solid twenty minutes, even with you fumbling to try and help anyway you can. Your vision goes briefly spotty when Eddie hands you his guitar and asks you to “hold her a sec”, briefly — accidentally — hooking his pinky finger with yours in the exchange. A promise of something yet untold — his jacket, his guitar, anything he gives you, you’ll guard with your life. 

It sounds just as stupid as you feared when you can’t stop yourself from saying it this time, but the way he laughs eases the sting of your embarrassment, if only a little. 

When everything is more or less put away, moods have not yet recovered from the previous moment’s tiff, but Gareth is never one to be deterred. 

“Come on, you guys. Why the long faces? That’s the longest set we’ve played in a while!” he says, nudging you with his elbow, “I’d say that’s reason enough to celebrate.”

It’s perhaps the first suggestion that night which isn’t immediately met with a dissenting chorus of booing and hissing. 

“Yeah, what do you say, fellas?” Jeff throws a neighborly arm over Eddie’s shoulder and gives him a shake for good measure, “The Palace’ll still be open for a few hours, how’s about we order a couple pizzas, get a six pack and go for a few rounds of Dragon’s Lair? Quarters are on me.” 

It sounds about as fun as any average Tuesday with Dustin and his friends, not nearly as special as anything you would do to celebrate such a monumental night as this, but being the guest here, you defer to the group. You look to their leader to gauge the appropriate reaction to Jeff’s suggestion, and you notice with a start that he does not share his friend’s enthusiasm. 

Call it babysitter’s intuition, but you seem to be the only one who has noticed that Eddie’s mood has taken a sudden and immediate nosedive into the creaky laminate flooring.

Everyone else is too busy listening to Gareth get his feathers ruffled over the plan to notice Eddie’s exchanged look with Laverne, still tucked in at the back of the bar with her arms crossed. 

You watch all of this happen with the privilege of blessed invisibility, preserving both the excitement of the moment and Eddie’s dignity as a decision is quietly made.

He’s not going. 

Your heart sinks. 

“Oh, so you’re just gonna oh-so-graciously offer to pay for the cheapest part of that plan?” Gareth snaps.

Jeff fishes a ring of keys from the front pocket of his jeans and jingles it in the other boy’s face.

If Eddie’s not going, you don’t want to go either, but you don’t dare embarrass yourself by saying that out loud, so you keep your mouth shut.

“I’m also gonna drive. You can be a cheap prick too when you get your license, Freshman.” Jeff says with no small amount of smugness, “What d’you say, Eddie? You in?”

He does his best to approximate an apologetic smile, then shakes his head, sweat damp curls bouncing as he does. 

“Not tonight, I’ve got some stuff I gotta finish up here.”

He does his best not to look directly at you as he says it, but you’re starting to learn that if there is one thing Eddie has a hard time doing, it’s not looking at you. You aren’t sure how to process that information and for a brief yet terrifying moment, it swells inside you to the point of pain. 

“You sure?” Gareth presses, glancing less than subtly between you and stretching his words past the point of pain, “Big night. Worth celebrating.”

You level him with an unimpressed look. 

Real smooth Gareth, why not just spell it out for him?

Still, you suppose you have to give him Brownie points for trying because you wouldn't even be here if it weren't for him. 

Eddie is already retreating when he gives his final answer, waving you off in a way that feels almost painfully casual. 

“Yeah, no, you guys go ahead. I’ll catch up with you later.”

You watch him go, and he watches you watching him. You can’t tell for certain, but it feels almost as if something significant is passing you by, a moment you’ll never be able to get back if you don’t snatch it out of the air before it’s gone.

It fills you with a stinging burst of panic, especially when Eddie turns and lets you out of his sight. 

You came here tonight to see him. You’re only here for him. 

You’re almost shocked to hear your name being spoken then, and when you snap back over to reality, Jeff and Gareth are looking expectantly at you — Adam, who could evidently not care less who comes or stays, is already halfway to the door.

They had him at pizzas and a six-pack.

“—how ‘bout it?”

You blink back at them stupidly.

“Me?”

Jeff shrugs. 

“Sure, it’s like the man said, you’re our biggest fan, you ought to share in the glory too.” 

Strange how you had assumed that invitation would not be extended to you, stranger still is how you’re suddenly considering it.

Pizza and beer at the arcade is not the worst way you’ve ever spent a Tuesday night, but there is something nagging at you, stopping you from immediately accepting. It’s that same feeling as before, opportunity slipping past you and an incredibly powerful pull asking you whether you ought to stay as you turn back to watch Laverne step aside to make room for Eddie as he rounds the bar. 

Stay? At a bar?

Where you have been so summarily informed that the chief of police is likely to pop up at any moment like a cheap jump scare in a bad horror movie?

It’s certainly not the worst idea you’ve ever had. 

It’s not even the worst idea you’ve had all day. 

“I think…” you start, “Actually, I think I’m gonna pass… it’s been a lot of excitement ...and my curfew is coming up soon.”

It’s not expressly untrue, but you feel a sharp pang of regret when Jeff shrugs and so willingly accepts your polite decline.

Part of you wishes that they would have fought a little harder to get you to come out – even Carol won’t take no for an answer the first time around – but that part of you is very quickly whipped back into shape.

You’re not here to hang out with Adam and Jeff and Gareth. 

“Suit yourself,” he says flippantly, then claps Gareth on the back, “C’mon G.” 

He doesn’t follow right away. Gareth, never one to miss a quiet exchange, remains, giving you a pointed look.

“What’s up?” He asks quietly, “You good?” 

You wait for Jeff to get out of earshot, then lean in.

“...Do you think I should stay?” You ask.

Gareth’s brows furrow in a confusion that you can only imagine must be the mirrored echo of your own previous thoughts. You can almost hear him warning you that Chief Hopper hangs around here, and then something like realization flashes across his features as he glances past you. 

You follow his gaze over to where Eddie is disappearing into the back, tying a dingy apron around his waist. 

“Yes,” He says quickly, with a wide stretch of his mouth, “I think that’s exactly what you should do.”

“You do?”

“Yes, absolutely – you stay, and I’ll see you tomorrow,”

You watch Gareth disappear out the front doors and linger a moment beneath the multi-colored lights.

The jukebox has since flipped over to play Dusty Springfield, and she is warning you that being good isn’t always easy, no matter how hard you try, and it gives you courage enough to slink back to the bar, where your soda sits long empty.

“You’re not getting a refill, so don’t even ask.” Laverne snaps, startling you. 

“I just wanted to pay for it.” 

She makes a gruff sound in the hollow of her throat and begins wiping down the bar. 

“It’s paid for.” She says reluctantly.

Before you can ask what that could possibly mean, she continues. 

“So, I reckon you’re stayin’ behind.” It’s not exactly a question, so you don’t feel pressed to answer, and when you don’t, she hefts a tub of dishes up onto the flattop. “Why don’t you take this back to Junior, since you’re so keen on hangin’ around. Save me the trip.”  

You look from Laverne to the dishes, and back again, feeling the wheels of your brain creaking under the duress of trying to see the invisible pitfall ahead of you. 

“...Am I allowed to do that?” you finally manage to ask, and for half a moment Laverne stares back at you like it was the dumbest thing she's ever heard anyone say. 

“I don’t give a shit” She finally huffs, “You do what you want, I’m goin’ out for a smoke.” 

She’s gone out the side door in a flash, and it takes you far too long to work out the pieces – Eddie paid for your drink, and she’s giving you an excuse to go back and see him. 

Boy, are you dense sometimes. 

Still, you can’t help but wonder if it’s all some clunky ploy to get you thrown out of the bar. You also can’t help but wonder who is going to watch the bar while Laverne is gone, but you decide that isn’t your problem as you seize the plastic tub and heft it down to brace against your hip. 

When you slip behind the bar and into the back, Eddie’s standing at the sink, elbow deep in suds and glaring at them like they’d personally wronged him. 

You linger in the doorway, selfishly taking in as much of this candid moment as you can steal, and scrounging around for what is left of your courage. 

“Hiya.” You say, once you find your voice. 

It startles him bad enough to send him leaping back from the sink. 

“Oh, shit,” Eddie says, stumbling over your name in a way that makes your insides go tight, “I – uh – I thought you left with the guys.”

“Nope.”

“What are you–?”

You tilt the dishtub toward him and jostle it in a way that is less tantalizing than you mean for it to be with the way the dishware shifts dangerously.

“Special delivery.”

Eddie’s brows come down over his eyes and his shoulders sag.  

“...Oh, great. Thanks,” he says, then gestures to the metal surface piled high with dishes. “Just put ‘em wherever you can.” 

The task is daunting. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen as many dishes in your life – it’s going to take him hours to get through them.

You tentatively shove the plastic bin in where you can fit it, careful not to disturb the topsyturvy stacking method that has been employed here, and linger idly as Eddie wipes his soapy hands on his jeans. 

A measured silence settles  between you, through which you can still hear the muted sounds of the bar trilling distantly on.  

“What happened?” Eddie finally asks, “How come you didn’t go with the guys?”

“Oh, well…” you start, electing to fib a little rather than do something so embarrassing as tell him the only reason you’re here tonight, “You know, as thrilling as sitting around in a parking lot drinking cheap beer sounds, I figured somebody ought to stay behind and keep you company. And I figured since you bought me a drink and all, it ought to be me.”

He huffs out a humorless laugh. 

“Lucky me.” 

You try not to let the biting sarcasm of the response dig its teeth in as you continue. 

“...That was sneaky, by the way. You didn’t have to do that.”

Eddie shrugs, and rests a hand on the curved metal lip of the three-basin sink.  

“Least I could do for our biggest fan.”  

He sounds less enthusiastic about that this time around and it is enough to make your stomach clench.

“...You guys were great, by the way.” You try again, for lack of anything better to say.

Eddie shakes his head. 

“Nah, we weren’t. We were actually pretty rough, I’m surprised they let us play as long as they did … but thanks for making the effort, though.” 

“Well… you were great.” You press, folding your hands behind your back and taking a step closer, “I mean, you were pretty much the best part of the show.”

Distantly, you see his eyebrows jump beneath the sweaty fringe drying tacky to his forehead. The corner of his mouth twitches. 

“You keep stroking my ego like that and I’m gonna have to buy you dinner to go with that drink,” Eddie warns you, and something inside of you shrieks with unabashed hormonal joy.

You cannot think of anything more tantalizing than that … except for maybe one of your two fantasies from earlier in the evening, but neither of those scenarios is on the table for tonight.

At least, you’re fairly certain they aren’t. 

You thank your lucky stars he’s so fixated on washing dishes that he can’t see the way you turn bright crimson.

“I’m serious. You were great, Eddie.” 

It’s enough to finally make him look at you again.

“You think so?”

And of course, now that you have his attention, you can’t help but go embarrassing yourself. 

“Yeah, absolutely. You’re a goddamn rockstar…” 

He grins. 

“D’you kiss your mother with that mouth, Sailor?”

You curl your lips in past your teeth on instinct and drop your gaze to your sneakers as the suggestion sends you hurtling back to the picnic bench in the woods behind school. 

You’re so sure Eddie was going to kiss you out there – you watched his eyes go heavy and lidded as his gaze slid down to your lips. You saw the shift in his posture, the oh-so-subtle way he tilted forward, curling his hands into fists, moist pink tongue darting out to wet the plush spread of his lips. 

He’s not looking at you like that now, and it’s the worst goddamn thing in the world. You have to force yourself to think of something – anything else to stop it from completely destroying you as you stand there, listening to Eddie washing the dishes. 

Oddly, there is only one thing that comes to mind. 

“...Can I ask you a question?”

The lewd soapy sounds of suds on ceramic sends a chill up your spine. 

“Sure, hit me.” 

“Before you went on, when we were standing at the bar... why did Laverne call you Junior?” You ask, and the question seems to catch him off guard, so you elaborate to fill the awkward silence before it can settle between you, “She did it again just outside when she told me to bring these back to you… I was just wondering about it…”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away, and you’re just about ready to tell him to forget it by the time he opens his mouth to speak.

“Ah… hmm,” he hesitates, “… it’s a … it’s a little inside joke some folks around town like to roll out.” Eddie explains, then after a beat of silence, he gestures vaguely, “Munson Junior.”

“...Oh.” You say lamely – the subtext is not lost on you, and suddenly you’re sorry you asked.  

A heavy silence settled between you, and then Eddie clears his throat in the prelude to what you'd feared was coming all night long.

“Hey, listen … it was real nice of you to stay behind…”

Uh oh. Here comes that dreaded rejection. 

It was nice of you to stay but it’s actually super weird that you’re here at all and you should probably go home before you embarrass yourself more than you already have. 

You do your best to stamp that line of thinking out before it can settle and elect to fold your hands behind your back, rocking on your heels and doing your utmost to look carefree. 

“But…?”

You don’t care if he’s about to ask you to leave, but you hope to any God out there listening that he doesn’t. 

“But… you should probably head out.” Eddie sighs.

Okay, so you lied. You care so much, and you can feel the corners of your mouth tremble as your smile begins to waver. 

Eddie continues.  

“This is gonna take a while, Sweetheart… and I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than stand around watching me play in dish water.” 

Sweetheart. The nickname fills you with foolish courage, and suddenly you’re taking another step closer. 

“Not really,” You admit, “I actually cancelled some plans to be here tonight…” 

He breathes a halfhearted laugh out through his nose.

“Betcha wish you hadn’t.”  

Oh, how wrong he is. If only he knew just how far you’d gone to make sure you could be here tonight.

“...Can I help?” You ask tentatively, forcing yourself not to look away when Eddie’s gaze snaps up and he clocks your sudden proximity with a soft, strangled sound in the hollow of his throat.

You pretend not to hear it for both your sake, “...it’ll speed things up. And... and then you can buy me dinner, right?”

You watch him stare back at you and can practically see the cogs turning in his brain, as if he absolutely cannot fathom the request you’d just made of him. When he continues to fail to answer, you try again.

“Here, let me help.” 

You reach for the rumpled dish rag, but Eddie catches your hand.

Your lungs spasm and go flat and for the brief moment you exist under his touch, you forget how to breathe. 

He shakes his head and tries to lead you away from the sink, releasing you entirely too soon for your liking. 

“No, you don’t have to do that.” he says, and for half a moment you’re afraid that nothing you say is going to convince him to let you stay. 

Then again, it’s not exactly like you’re asking for his permission. 

“I know…” You hum, feeling your tongue go fat in your mouth and taking another step toward him, “But I want to.”

Eddie doesn’t retreat from your advance, but he calls your bluff with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow.

“You wanna waste your night doing dishes in the back of a bar?” he deadpans.

Of course you do. 

You want to tell him that you want to do every trivial task under the sun if it means you get to do it with him. You’d happily sit and watch paint dry if Eddie was going to be there with you, but somehow you’re not certain that is going to do anything to make you sound cool and attractive.  

“Sure, why not?” you shrug, rolling your sleeves up as far past your elbows as they will go and sidling up so you’re standing nearly hip to hip.

Your heart is hammering behind your ribs when you dare to steal a cautious, casual glance up at him, “I don’t have anything better to do right now.” 

Eddie stares back at you, brows furrowed quizzically before he shakes his head, mutters something unintelligible to himself, then reaches into a milk crate sitting beneath the sink that you hadn’t noticed until he fishes out a pair of oversized yellow dish gloves and hands them to you. 

“Yeah, okay – since you’ve got nothing better to do – put these on. We don’t want those fingers going prune.”  

It takes you much longer to get through the dishes than you anticipated when you originally offered your services.

Two hours later, your sweater is soaked down the front, you’ve got suds in your sleeves, and you can smell the faintest hint of budding mildew wafting off of you, but you finish the dishes in half the time you imagine it would have taken Eddie to do them on his own. 

When you’re done, you bid Laverne a cheerful farewell, one she does not acknowledge, and you leave the bar together. 

Eddie has been talking animatedly about a hundred different subjects the whole time, though the last five minutes of conversation have been allotted to his guitar – which he tells you is an N.J. Warlock series, and you have no idea what that means.

You don’t mind though, you’ve been listening quietly without interjection because your newest revelation is just how much you like to listen to Eddie talk when he gets going. Not the heated preaching you’ve witnessed a hundred times in the lunchroom, but an excitable deep dive into something he is clearly very passionate about. 

In your deepest flights of fancy, you imagine him talking to someone about you like this, and as you cross the parking lot and arrive at the back of his van, it makes your insides flutter with a girlish excitement.  

Unfortunately, he mistakes your silence over the past few minutes for disinterest and grows sheepish.

“...Anyway, I didn’t mean to talk your ear off like that,” Eddie says, rolling his shoulders. “When I get going it’s hard to shut me up sometimes … sorry.” 

You shake your head.

“No, not at all! I didn’t want to interrupt your flow, I just don’t really know anything about guitars.”

A look of patent relief flashes across Eddie’s face and is very quickly replaced with something sly as he pops open the back doors to the van. Inside sits half a dozen pieces of Gareth’s drum kit, two amps, and a sleek, black, rectangular case.

Eddie rests a hand on the hood of the case with a thump and you watch his gaze slide over to you. 

“You wanna meet her?” he asks. 

You don’t respond right away, if only because you don’t know who he could possibly mean, here in this deserted parking lot, but he doesn’t give you the opportunity to linger in the limbo of that unknowing. 

He pops open the hinges and flips the lid up, revealing the angular crimson body of the guitar. Eddie lifts the instrument carefully from its crushed velvet bed and presents it to you with all the reverence of a lover. 

You reach out tentatively to trace the smooth resin of her body with your finger pads and suddenly the moment feels supercharged with something heavy. The air is thick with it, whatever it is, and it settles in your lungs with a cloying film. You can’t be certain as to why, but you can suddenly feel your heart beating in your stomach.

“This is Sweetheart,” Eddie says, voice dripping with an admiration that makes your insides clench.

The heady atmosphere dissipates almost immediately, and you drop your hand back to your side to try and mask the way it makes you flinch to hear him call the guitar that.

Sweetheart?! No, it most certainly is not. 

You’re Sweetheart. That’s your name now, remember? He only went and gave you the goddamn thing, now here he is telling you it’s just some random term of endearment he slaps on anything shiny and new that happens to catch his eye?

Fucking lame. 

“Oh. Wow. It’s pretty.” You force yourself to say, because it’s not untrue, even if you are suddenly gripped in a ridiculous burning jealousy over his relationship toward an instrument. “Really pretty.” 

And then Eddie pulls a face of sheer and total mock offense.

“Hey now,” he warns you gently, “Show a little respect for the love of my life here, will ya?” 

You glance up at him and for half a moment aren't entirely sure you’re in the mood to meet him there. But it’s stupid to be jealous of an inanimate object. That would be like finding out Eddie was jealous of your vibrator or something stupid … which also suggests he’s fucking his guitar, so no, maybe it’s not like that at all.

Still, the thought manifests an image, which immediately sears itself into your frontal lobe and sends the blood rushing to your head so quickly you’re half surprised it doesn’t pop.

“...she’s pretty?” you hum, feeling suddenly like you’re about to faint. 

Eddie gives you a satisfied smile – one you don’t see for how your vision has briefly gone spotty – and nods. 

“Damn right she is," he says, laying her back in her case and snapping the lid shut.

If you’d been looking, and not feeling a stupid sense of satisfaction to see her get so summarily shut away, you would have seen Eddie go suddenly shy as his eyes slide over to peek at you from his peripheral.

“...Second prettiest girl in the room tonight.”

It hits you like a slap in the face and is oddly grounding. Your vision clears, your ears stop roaring, and just like that everything goes back to normal. Just you and Eddie standing in an empty parking lot with the echo of his attempt at a smooth line lingering between you. 

Your mouth falls open and you choke on a loud bark of startled laughter. 

Ha! Take that, Sweetheart.

Eddie wrinkles his nose and pulls a face like he immediately wishes he could take it back, not knowing that you’d strike him dead before he would even dare. He’s a total fucking dork, and that’s yours now. There will be no takebacks. Not now, not ever.  

“Damn,” he mutters, squeezing an eye shut and reaching up to scratch at his brow, “That was super fucking corny, wasn’t it? Not my best effort – sorry.” 

You press your lips together in a tight seal in a desperate attempt to keep a hideously giddy sound of animalistic joy from bleating up out of you, and you shake your head. 

“That’s okay.” You start, dismissing the thick layer of cheese with a flippant wave, “I’m sure Laverne would be flattered to hear you say that about her.” 

It takes him a moment to catch on, but when he does he snorts and rolls his eyes, mumbling something under his breath about Laverne. He doesn’t correct you, and you let the moment die with dignity because you know what matters.

Eddie Munson thinks you’re pretty, and that will forever be etched on the front of your brain, whether he likes it or not. 

“So,” Eddie begins, shutting the van up again and leaning back against the door. He fishes a rumpled pack of camels from his jacket pocket, and you elect not to say anything about that, “It’s a little late for dinner… but how would you feel about a midnight snack?”

You know the muscles in your face are going to be sore in the morning for how widely you’ve been grinning back at him all night, and you nod, hoping you don’t look too overeager, but also not giving a damn if you do. 

“What did you have in mind?”

He pops a cigarette between his teeth and goes looking for his lighter.  

“Let’s see. I think Fosters might still be open. You could get a milkshake, chili dog, banana split, – whatever your heart desires, Sweet Thing. Your wish is my command.” 

The thought of riding out to Foster’s Freeze on the far end of town with Eddie Munson is tantalizing in the best possible way. You’re beaming as you bring your wrist up to glance at your watch and try to visualize what you can stomach so late.

All thoughts of your growling stomach sail right out of your head as your heart rockets up into your throat before dropping into a free fall because it’s nearly midnight. 

“Jesus Christ!” You gasp, head snapping up to share your horrified look with the class. 

Eddie blinks back at you.

“Nope, just me–” 

“Can I see your watch?” You’re taking hold of his wrist and pulling it up to stare into the digital face of his Casio before he can answer, “Oh, God – it’s so late.”

“What’s the matter, you turning into a pumpkin or something?” He teases, lighting his cigarette with his free hand.

“My curfew was like half an hour ago,” You say quickly, dropping his wrist and nearly upending your bag in the frantic search for your keys.  

“Oh… shit,” Eddie mumbles, “Well, d’you need a ride? I’ll get you home lickety-split–” 

You elect to ignore any intended innuendo there in lieu of your mounting panic.

“No, thanks, I’ve got my car – listen, I really gotta go,” You say, “But let’s do a raincheck, okay?” 

You don’t wait for him to answer before you turn and bolt for your car shouting back to him as you go.  

“I mean it, Munson! You owe me that midnight snack!” 

You’re fumbling with your keys in the lock and whipping your door open with a harsh creak before you remember yourself and spin on your heel.  

“Oh— Eddie, wait!” He’s circled around to the driver’s side and is standing on the runner, already half way up into his seat when his head snaps up, and you grow suddenly shy, “Thank you for this, it was – I mean, you’re – I had fun tonight. More fun than I would have had sitting at home, anyway.” 

He gives you a strange look.  

“...you really mean that, don’t you?” He asks after a moment, “Truly. Dishes and all?”

You nod, and you watch him shaking his head in a way you imagine must be accompanied by a good-humored chuckle as he takes a final drag on his cigarette and tosses it.    

“Well, bless you for saying so.” He says, “Let’s do it again sometime.”

“Absolutely. I’ll do the dishes with you anytime.” Oh my God, why the fuck did you just say that? You’re cheesy and boring and stupid – just a stupid girl with a stupid crush. 

And Eddie is laughing. 

“Get home safe, Sweetheart.” he calls, “Wear your seatbelt.”

“Yeah, you too… goodnight, Eddie.”  

Despite the traded goodbyes, you both linger a moment longer, looking back at one another halfway into your respective cars and so reluctant to part despite the ticking time bomb hurtling toward you at breakneck speed.

You need to get home, and yet…?

“Penny for your thoughts?” Eddie calls, and you feel yourself flush. 

“It’s just… you know … what Shakespeare said…”

Across the lot, he steps down from the van and nods. 

“Sure. Good ol’ Willy Shakes.” and when you don’t elaborate, he gently prompts you, “What’s Shakespeare say, Sweetness?”

The saccharine twist on your new nickname has a lump forming in your throat, one you almost don’t get the words around as it swells and threatens to strangle you.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow.” you sigh. 

It’s perhaps the uncoolest thing you’ve said all night, and you don’t even have the good sense to be embarrassed about it, because it’s also the truest thing you’ve said all night, and suddenly your heart is pounding in your chest.

You really, really have to go, but you don’t want to. 

Eddie crosses his arms and leans back against the van.

“Yeah… it sure is.” 

The silence endures, and as the seconds tick by, you continue to fail to tear yourself away. The last time you left him like this, you didn’t see him again for five days, and after tonight you’re not sure you can survive another five days without Eddie in your life.

Maybe you can stand to miss your curfew. Maybe your parents won’t notice your car is gone and won’t come to check in on you. Maybe you can sneak in after midnight or stay out all night … maybe you can just stand here saying goodnight over and over until the sun comes up and never have to get to the parting part. 

“Go home, Sweetheart.” Eddie says then, “I don’t wanna get you in trouble.” 

The sentiment causes the lump in your throat to swell, and you have to force yourself to breathe out slowly to ease the pressure it puts on you.

You watch him climb up into the van and feel your heart thumping again. One of you had to go first, you suppose. Last time it was you, this time it’s only fair it’s him. 

“Bye Eddie.” You call, and when you still fail to get into your car, he heaves a long-suffering sigh, which is a little too fond to be just that.

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you home?” He asks, “It’s like I told you – lickety split.”  

Don’t make a promise you can’t keep. You want to warn him, but all you can manage is a smile.

Then you slide in behind the wheel of your car and shut the door behind you. You linger a moment longer and when you feel that lump threatening to return – one you quickly realize is the prelude to melancholy – you can’t help but steal one last look out your window, back at the van.

Eddie is still there, and better still, he seems to have had the same thought as you, because when you look, there he is looking at you again.

It fills you with a bright and warming sense of satisfaction. It's not so easy to tear yourself away, is it?

Then, as if to answer, Eddie waves.

You grin, return the gesture, and start your cars at the same time. It only takes a short dosey-do around each other to exit the parking lot side by side. You turn left, he turns right, and you watch in your rearview mirror until his taillights fade into the dark.

Yeah, you think you might have fallen pretty hard tonight, and you’re going to have a very hard time getting up again.

[glasskey]

I’m Gonna Cut Your F#cking Heart Out - The June Osborne Hit List Pt 1.

You guessed it, time for our girl to finally get her own playlist. She’s been busy to say the least, so there’s certainly surplus to requirement here. Let’s start with some of her most memorable hits from The Handmaid’s Tale season 1.

Nolite te Bastardes Carborundorum (Don’t let the bastards grind you down)

The infamous words of defiance and hope scrawled on the inside of June’s wardrobe from the previous Handmaid, who tragically, ultimately, let the bastards (Fred) grind her down. It was fitting that at the beginning of season 1, June had absolutely no idea what these words meant, but by the end of S2 she’d plastered them across the wall of her prison in foot high letters. Suitably she found this secret call to freedom destroyed upon her unceremonious return at the beginning of S2. We watched as Aunt Lydia and Serena proceeded to join forces to crush her spirit, leaving June catatonic and bleeding in the garden bed. It seemed poetic that June had to ask Fred their meaning, for their very essence incited rebellion and he was after all, her jailer. His response that it was a joke, indicated that the very concept of kicking against the system was laughable. It was a message contained in one of Fred’s boyhood school books, signifying a long since dead rebellious youth. Here in Gilead these words belong to June and she treats them like a prayer for strength against the resident “bastard” Fred, and his unending onslaught of rape and obsessive creepiness. The moment Fred is confronted by the words on June’s bedroom wall as he is held at gun point by Nick, is juxtaposed with his demise in that dark forest at the hands of Nick and June. The phrase signed off across his hung lifeless body marking June and Fred’s separation and the end of a sinister chapter. In her testimony June had asked for justice for the nameless, voiceless many and here it was at last, for the previous anonymous Handmaid who had hung herself in despair in the Waterford's attic.

Standing there in her room staring at those words, Fred of all people should have understood their subtext, but consumed with obsession and arrogance, he chose to ignore them. How was he to know they weren’t just a good old fashioned fuck you from Osborne, but also a prophetic warning.

What else is there to live for?

As much as I hated Fred, he did get some of the best lines and this one scene has three of his greats. This quote from Fred and the philosophical debate he has with June is one of my favorite Osborne moments. It encapsulates the difference in nature between their respective two worlds. Fred’s musings about life pre Gilead come loaded with allusions to men and women’s displacement from their traditional roles. Fred, and later Lawrence, argue that as these lines blurred and women attempted to exceed their “biological destinies”, men felt they lost their purpose and society crumbled. Fred believes that the sole purpose of humanity is to breed and perpetuate the human race, anything else such as love, is nothing more than sentimental garbage invented to facilitate this process. “Now you’re free to fulfil your biological destinies….what else is there to live for?” he asks “Love” June replies almost astonished at his ignorance. To her the answer is so self-evident and obvious; because unlike Fred she’s actually experienced it, and isn’t the emotional equivalent of a cavernous black hole. He scoffs dismissing it as lust, and she unfortunately overestimates the length of the leash Fred has her on. She drops the careless quip; “Maybe for you, but not for me”, questioning both his emotional depth and the authenticity of his feelings for Serena. He is less than amused. He proceeds to give her a not so subtle warning by telling her exactly what they did to Emily. It’s clear that in this world women’s needs or pleasure are not only irrelevant, but a hindrance to the cause.

Fred then drops what is possibly my favorite line for this entire series; “Every love story is a tragedy if you wait long enough”, it speaks volumes about the deterioration of his and Serena’s relationship. Once loving and affectionate it has become bitter and resentful within the bounds of Gilead, for in Gilead, anything beautiful decays. These words are both heartbreaking and loaded with foreboding, and it’s poetic that upon leaving his study she runs straight into Nick. The similarities and differences between Fred and Serena’s and Nick and June’s relationship are played out time after time throughout the seasons. This moment in particular leaves you wondering, will the other shoe indeed drop? Or are Fred and Serena actually the antithesis of what Nick and June will eventually become? Fred’s a cynic, he’s a monster but he can also recognize that Gilead comes at a personal cost to June and here we see the closest thing to an apology or at the very least an acknowledgment from Fred: “Better never means better for everyone. It always means worse for some.” It is notable that June, quotes this back to Nick in season 2, reluctant to abandon both he and Hannah in a place where love is not a purpose but merely a device.

What are you gonna trade us for? Fucking chocolate?

Here June gets her first lesson in just how much of a commodity women have become, on a global scale, even to other women. Alma lets her know from the very beginning the seedy details of the deals that are actually being made, and it sure as fuck isn’t for oranges. June unfortunately thinks that the Ambassador has some sort of interest in June’s imprisonment and if she only knew the appalling conditions June was being kept in she would undoubtedly do something about it. She’s wrong. When they first met she dutifully kept her trap shut, but then Serena had to go and parade all those children around in front of her. The spoils of Gilead and the consequence of the Handmaids enslavement. When the Ambassador turns up toting a tin of choccy to thank June for her candor about life in Gilead she lets her know exactly what being a Handmaid is all about, complete with the eye gouging and cattle prods. Contrary to belief she hasn’t sacrificed herself to the glory of Gilead; she was kidnapped, enslaved and her own child stolen. The Ambassador is of course horrified but willing to do exactly jack shit about it lest it endanger her trade deal for a shipment of Handmaids.

June’s suitably stunned and angry; she’s demanding some answers. Turns out the Ambassadors country desperately needs repopulating; although I was challenged to see what shipping over some fresh wombs would do without the whole Gilead old timey scrub down to go along with it, as this actually seemed to be the secret sauce. June accuses the Ambassador of trading the Handmaids for chocolate, it’s a stab at her moral fiber; chocolate serves no purpose but pleasure, it’s a trivial luxury, and as such she must view these women as mere chattels to trade them for it. If these people want to start trading red tags, June will make sure they see exactly what it costs them personally, and it’s a lot more than oranges and chocolate.

I’m sorry Aunt Lydia

Here we see the birth of Mayday or rather June’s true baptism as its unofficial leader. When faced with the prospect of stoning Janine to death, June chose instead to give Aunt Lydia the equivalent of the middle finger in front of her peers, complete with a smug “I’m sorry Aunt Lydia.” Much to Aunt Lydia’s horror her buddies all followed suit…..it was enough to make a cuddly old fascists blood boil. As the Handmaids walked in lockstep back to their respective homes, there was an undeniable new confident swagger to them. Nevermind, Gilead will shortly torture and terrify that out of them, but the damage is done, the rebellious rot has now set in for good.

Janine was the best behaved one out of the bunch and even she ended up a stone’s throw away from a salvaging; it could have been any one of them and they all knew it. In your run of the mill dictatorship, unquestioning loyalty is bred through fear and the reward of remaining alive. However, Gilead seemed to have made the fatal mistake of punishing it's innocent, leaving the Handmaids to reach the logical conclusion that they were fucked either way. Regimes such as these are ripe for rebellion. Gilead had unintentionally turned their handmaids attire from a ritualistic binding into a rebels uniform in one fell swoop, and unfortunately no amount of stylistic alterations were going to change it back now. This was the moment that the Handmaids realized that they had nothing to lose, and there’s nothing more dangerous than solidarity amongst those who are willing to sacrifice themselves for a cause.

While we all wait faithfully for S6, I'll be back with more playlists. See you then.

[britishassistant]

Gale’s Excellent Adventure (2)

Gale thinks that things are going well so far!

They’ve met and recruited a githyanki warrior—the first Gale’s ever seen outside of illuminations in scholarly texts!—and a rather dashing warlock who answers to the moniker “The Blade of the Frontiers”.

The fellow was hunting a war-devil, who turned out to be an unaccountably lovely tiefling with an infernal engine in her chest as well as a mindflayer tadpole on the brain.

He is looking forward to learning more about this exotic trio over the course of their travels together. And he’s learned so much more about his current companions too!

He now knows that Shadowheart is a cleric of a deity she will not name, but one that prizes secrecy and an intimate knowledge of torture and interrogation tactics among its followers.

(He’s relatively certain it’s not Mystra. Relatively. Almost probably.)

That Astarion channels the innate cruelty and ruthlessness of his profession into being very skilled at stabbing people in the vitals and relieving them of any valuables they possessed.

(Also he contains a puckish glee for “odd” names. He was in stitches over “Wyll-with-a-Y” for hours.)

That Yuu has yet to receive any formal training as a bard or a combatant, but improvises with what few cantrips they do know to devastating effect.

(They’re trading him magical items for lessons on the Weave. Gale’s surprised at how he enjoys it.)

There’s been a few…fractious moments between certain individuals who shall remain nameless, but he’s certain everyone will be fast friends soon enough! They’re all in this together, bonded over getting rid of the mindflayer tadpoles.

And best of all, no one’s noticed a thing.

He’s been patient, and observant, and has learned enough by now to mimic the spasms the others get when their tadpoles are…tadpoling. Their mental communications are harder to fake, but nothing a sneaky “detect thoughts” can’t fix.

Yes, he’s blended in splendidly, if he does say so himself.

***

“Gale? Can I have a word?”

“Hm?” He looks round, drawn out of his musings by one of his new friends. “Ah, Shadowheart! How can I be of help?”

She glances around, taking in Karlach debating with Lae’zel, Astarion needling Yuu while they’re trying to hold a conversation with Wyll.

“It’s a bit of a…personal matter.” She leans in. “Would you mind if we took this somewhere more private?”

Oh. Oh!

Well, this is a little awkward. Gale knows he’s handsome man and a capable wizard. It’s only natural that, in such close proximity for so long, someone would fall in love with him sooner or later.

Still, he reflects as they arrive in the ruins behind the camp. His dedicated monogamy to Mystra does mean that he has little to no idea how to let someone down gently or ask if he can get to know them a little better first before committing fully. She certainly provided no example—swept in with power and a whirlwind romance only to just vanish into the night and never respond to his sendings or prayers. Oh hells, how is he going to—

“I know you don’t have a tadpole, Gale.” Shadowheart announces gravely.

Gale promptly chokes on his own spit.

“Wh-wh-what?!” He splutters. “What are you—how—that’s—!”

“Really?” She tilts her head at him, a cross between sardonic and pitying. “That’s all it takes for you to break? Gale, I made one statement. Do I need to teach you how to lie so the others don’t unmask you so easily?”

“I don’t know what—?” He tries to lie, but she folds her arms, stare growing even more unimpressed. “Alright, alright, but not so loud! How in Mystra’s name did you find out?”

“It really wasn’t that difficult.” She shrugs.

He lets out a little snort, kicking a twig. “Spare my feelings, why don’t you.”

Shadowheart sighs, taking pity on his pouting. “Fine. It started in the Druid sanctum. When we happened upon the druidess menacing the tiefling child, the rest of us were treated to a…rather unpleasant vision. Involving a much smaller Yuu, an elven beauty, and attempted horn removal.”

He feels as though he cricks something in his neck, whipping around to face her. “I’m sorry, there was what?”

“It doesn’t matter,” She dismisses, far too casually in his humble opinion. “What matters is that, given that Astarion and myself were both effectively deaf, dumb, and blind thanks to the tadpoles forcing us to view that charming little scene, how were you able to remain aware enough to keep Yuu from impulsively murdering that druid?”

He thinks of how he’d had to lunge when he noticed the tailless tiefling tugging free the spear they’d scavenged, the way the teenager had turned to him with glassy-eyed incomprehension before they shuddered back into themselves as if shaking off lingering night terrors.

“The pieces fell into place from there easily enough.” Shadowheart continues, meandering as she talks. “You react a moment too late if something the tadpoles do affects us physically. And you respond like a normal person ought to when confronted with other instances of the parasite that we’ve come across.”

“I see.” Gale mutters. Then, fiddling at his sleeves slightly. “A normal person, as opposed to…?”

Shadowheart’s face creases into a disgusted grimace. “An abiding compulsion from our guests to find more of the little monsters and slurp them down as if they’re a bowl of your fine stew.”

“Ah. Urgh.” Gale can’t keep his own nose from wrinkling.

The two of them marinate in companionably disgusted silence for a few moments.

“…And now?” Gale asks, unable to bear the silence any longer. “Is this where you announce to hither, thither and yon that I’m a fraud? Or did you have some personal retribution planned for my disseminations before proceeding with my banishment?”

A soft, sweet smile curves Shadowheart’s lips. Even with the mischievous twinkle in her eyes, it’s one of Gale’s favorite expressions of hers.

“Well, I wouldn’t say we need to go as far as all that. You’ve been a fine companion, Gale, even without the tadpole. I feel the tenor of this group would drop dramatically if you left us. The quality of our meals certainly would.”

A single ember of hope sparks into a quivering flame in his chest. “So then—!”

“But,” She holds up a finger to interrupt him. “I will require something in return. A guarantee, of sorts. I’m hardly Lady Popularity, after all, and if the others discover I’ve been lying for you then things could get quite sticky for me, you understand?”

He dithers for a moment, before letting himself nod. “Anything. I’ll do anything—ah, short of harming or endangering our fellow companions. Or myself. Or you.”

She tosses him a sardonic look. “Gale, would I ever?”

He elects not to answer that.

“I need you to keep an eye out for something.” Shadowheart says. “It’s a…keepsake of mine. I had it with me on the Nautiloid, but when I woke up afterwards, it was gone.”

“Oh. Oh dear.” Gale frowns, considering. “Well, I’m happy to aid however I can. What does it look like?”

She kneels down and, picking up a twig, sketches a vague dodecahedron with strange, angular characters decorating its surface. “It’s a little smaller than a fist, and black with orange markings. It is vital I get it back, it—! It means a lot to someone very important to me. Someone I’d hoped to reunite with in Baldur’s Gate.”

And call him a soft touch, but Gale’s always been partial to grand romantic gestures of devotion. “Alright. I’ll keep a keen eye out for it, don’t you worry. Might even dust off some of the old divination textbooks to see if scrying would be of any use!”

“Thank you, Gale.” Shadowheart smiles, verdant eyes sparkling with warmth like sunlight dappled through tree leaves. “You’re an excellent friend.”

It may be a little embarrassing, but that praise warms the cockles of Gale’s heart for the rest of the evening and well past noon the next day.

That warmth quickly goes tepid when it turns out the keepsake is in the custody of their intrepid leader, so revealed when the teenager pulls it out, bold as brass, to ask him if he can identify whether or not it is some form of communication device.

They at least heed his urging to return it to Shadowheart, even if they grumble slightly about the spies for the Order of the Companion as they do so. Shadowheart is rightfully indignant, but willing to forgive. His secret is safe. Gale is content that all is right with the world.

Which is when they all discover that Yuu literally, physically cannot give up the artefact.

***

“Wizard.”

“Gah!” He can’t help jumping.

“Ah, Lae, Lae’zel! You startled me. Can I help with anything?”

She scowls at him. Or possibly just looks at him neutrally. Perhaps even favorably! He’s never quite been able to tell.

Being too intimidated to maintain eye contact may have something to do with it.

“Follow me.” Lae’zel orders.

As with most of her orders, Gale obeys mostly without question.

Mostly.

“Rather, rather unusual for you to summon me, isn’t it? Not that I don’t enjoy conversing with you, far from it! I’ve always found it highly, ah, enlightening to learn more about githyanki philosophy and custom, particularly in matters of—!”

He finds himself transfixed by a pair of golden eyes staring into his soul and by a finger pressing to his lips.

“Cease this prattle.” She snaps. “You are no yank begging for mercy from a varsh. I have matters of import to discuss, so be silent and listen.”

Despite his usual difficulties with the task, Gale finds himself shrinking mutely back into the tree she has him effectively pinioned against.

A gleam of approval enters her gaze.

He chooses to interpret the removal of her finger as a proverbial carrot to incentivize his behavior.

“I know of your deception, wizard.” Lae’zel pronounces. “That you merely pretend to be afflicted with the parasite the rest of us suffer.”

His blood turns to ice.

“Ha. Hahaha!” He laughs, nonchalantly, like Shadowheart’s taught him. “That is. That is a. Funny joke, Lae’zel! Truly, you are the comedic backbone of this camp!”

Her expression does not change.

Gale tries desperately to concentrate on maintaining the illusion of mirth.

He fails.

“What gave it away?” He asks wearily, recognizing a thorough routing when he sees it.

“It was simple for one such as I.” She declares. “Of all who fell sweating and diminished under the tadpole’s machinations, you alone were flush with health. The gi even used this a proof to keep me from purging the camp.”

“Gi?”

Lae’zel rolls her eyes. “Gi, student in Common. The tailless one requested my instruction in combat, so they would not perish as they almost did aboard the Nautiloid. But that is irrelevant to the matter at hand. Which is that the next morn, you again were the sole member of this sorry band who did not immediately come forward with talk of a figure in golden armor in your dreams, telling us to utilize the tadpole.”

“Ah.” Gale had personally thought his improvisation when Yuu had consulted him, cobbled together from elements he’d overheard from the others, had been rather inspired all things considered. “Might there be anything I could do to convince you to not evict me from camp?”

Lae’zel crosses her arms. “And risk losing what is a blessing from Vlaa’kith herself? Do not be foolish!”

“Erm?” Says Gale.

“I would make you my ally, wizard.” She announces. “As the only one free of ghaik infection, you alone are free of their trickery and deceptions. You alone see things as they truly are, instead of what the parasite would have us believe them be.”

He considers this with a sense that is not quite dread, but is not far off in how it looms over him, makes his breath short under its scale. The anticipation of a burden to bear, perhaps.

“I…suppose so.”

“Do not suppose, know. That is what wizards claim to be their domain, is it not?” She challenges, a cocky bent to her smirk that makes Gale want dearly to rise to it. To prove himself worthy, somehow.

“Very well. And what would this alliance entail?” He queries.

“I would have you as my touchstone. To assure me of what is real and what is mere fabrication.” Lae’zel asserts, in the manner of a commander dispensing orders. “And, should the ghaik infection progress beyond this, aid me in ending the misery of the others and myself.”

Gale does not choke this time, but it’s a near thing.

“You what?!” He squawks. “Lae’zel, you can’t be serious!”

“And why not?!” She fires back. “You, above all others, know the danger of the ghaik! You know what will happen if we are allowed to transform! I will not permit it!!”

“Yes, well, but—! Lae’zel, you asked me to act as touchstone for you.” He implores, seeking out her gaze. “Then let me. This is madness speaking, Lae’zel, the purest folly. Losing you, or any of the others, that could in no way make the world a safer place. If anything—!”

He pounces on this new line of reasoning that has just dawned on him. “If anything, isn’t it far more likely that this is one of the tadpole’s insidious commands?”

Her eyes snap to him, alert as any bird of prey. “Explain.”

“Well, consider it,” Gale proposes, warming to his topic. “When we came upon those Absolute fellows with tadpoles in their heads, we didn’t join up with their cause, did we? In fact, Yuu deliberately orchestrated their demise while fighting that owlbear, so even their corpses couldn’t give a clear account of their killers. Maybe the tadpoles have realized you all have far more, erm, vigor and vim than they can contend with? Thus leading to them attempting to encourage you to terminate yourselves or each other to keep you from growing too powerful, opposing whatever their plans may be?”

He can see the cogs turning in her head as she gives his words due consideration. “Hrm…that would explain why Shadowheart is so irascible, and unwilling to allow the gi to return the aretfact to my people.”

He privately considers that this may have more to do with the fact that Shadowheart is still very determined to gift the artefact to her beloved in Baldur’s Gate and that she just greatly dislikes Lae’zel, but decides discretion is the better part of valor in this case.

“To think that the tadpole could even use the training of crèche K’llir against me…” Lae’zel shakes her head, disquieted. “Already this alliance bears fruit. I will keep your secret, wizard, and keep you appraised of when the parasite attempts its trickery again.”

Gale sags as the tension he’s amassed over the course of this conversation escapes him all at once. “R-right, erm, of course. Please, please do.”

She nods to him and strides off back to camp.

He waits until she’s out of sight before letting himself sink against the base of the tree in exhaustion.

Well all’s well that ends well, he supposes. And if that means Lae’zel occasionally comes to him to complain about certain habits of their companions that inspire murderous rage in her, and it turns into a bit of a gossip session…

Well, it’s certainly better than the alternative.

***

“Care for a drink, Gale?”

It’s late, and most of the camp is curled up in their bedrolls and tucked away in their tents. He had presumed that the only ones left awake were himself, pouring over a rather interesting volume of Fringe Philosophy, and that dog which followed Yuu back from goodness knows where in the woods.

The frowsy canine has been eyeing his boots with intent, he just knows it.

He finds himself for once welcomely mistaken when he looks up to see Wyll proffering one of the bottles of Ithbank that also returned with the scouting party.

“Ooh, don’t mind if I do.” He puts the book to the side, scooching to make space for his new companion in libations on the log.

Wyll takes a seat next to him, muscled thigh bulging where it presses against Gale’s own.

Gale tries in vain to focus instead on the gratifyingly full cup the Blade of Frontiers passes him. The wine itself tastes tart and dry as it goes down.

“Oh, that hits the spot.” Gale sighs happily. “My deepest thanks, good sir. I must admit I did not realize how sorely I needed this.”

“Ah, think nothing of it.” Wyll replies modestly.

The pair of them sup together in convivial silence.

It’s when Gale is refilling Wyll’s cup for the third time that he ventures, tentatively, “Gale? You would consider us friends, correct?”

A horrible, prickling feeling starts up the back of Gale’s neck.

“Of course. I hardly know of a situation where somebody could fight alongside you and not look upon our relationship with a considerable degree of amicability.” He responds, wetting his lips. Then, with a slight undertone of suspicion, “Why?”

“As if we are friends, like you and I have agreed.” Wyll goes on doggedly, somehow managing to give an entreating gaze with one eye hell-red-on-black and the other made of stone. “Then it would be right and proper of me to let you know of certain deductions I have made about your person. Correct?”

Oh, for the love of Mystra—!

“Out with it, then.” He mutters gloomily, seizing the bottle for a generous pour. “What, when, where, why, how?”

Wyll takes the bottle with a measure of trepidation, lips softly pursed in deliberation before he sets it down in the grass between them.

“Well, you remember the phase spiders. In the well?”

Gale lets out a piteous moan. “Please don’t remind me.”

“You were trying to cast magic missile on one of them, but its vermin-riddled servant was coming up behind you.” Wyll continues, “And no matter how Yuu and I tried to connect with your tadpole to warn you, it was as though we couldn’t reach it. As though it wasn’t there in the first place. And then Karlach shoved you.”

“And then Karlach shoved me.” He repeats numbly. The burn where her elbow got his ribs healed without a trace after one potion.

The memory of her horrified screaming when the arachnids swarmed her and somehow didn’t immediately meet a fiery demise will take a much heavier draught to recover from.

He groans, taking a too big swig from his goblet.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting something then, in exchange for not running me out of camp at first light.” He states, the wine making his inhibitions loose and speech spill freely. “Some arcane knowledge your patron has failed to provide? The retrieval of a family heirloom? Counsel from a former archmage?”

“What? No, I—!”

A muffled snort interrupts Wyll’s passionate rebuke. After watching the dog settle itself again by the fire with bated breath, Gale is drawn back to his drinking partner’s earnestness.

“I require counsel for…” Wyll pauses, considering. “A lot of things in my life right now. But. But more than that, I would be forever grateful for a friendly ear. Someone to commiserate with, without needing to plan and solve things that are beyond help.”

Gale swirls his cup and watches the small whirlpool of red.

“Hm. They are a bit of a doer, aren’t they?”

Wyll does not even ask who he means, just groans in a way Gale can sympathize with. “I—Yuu’s very capable, and Helm preserve me but I like them, but do they ever switch off?!“

“I”, Gale confides in his most conspiratorial tones, “Once saw them pull out that journal of theirs after speaking with Lae’zel and begin scribbling down a detailed synopsis of the conversation they’d just held. While we were inside the hag’s lair.”

Wyll stares at him, eyes bulging. He lets slip a bark of laughter he instantly muffles by clapping a hand over his mouth.

Gale can’t help the surge of pleased satisfaction that courses through him.

“Gods above, but that cannot be healthy. Leading every excursion out of camp, acting as arbiter within it, recording everything, concocting alchemicals, training with you and Lae’zel…” Wyll scrubs a hand over his head, frowning in annoyance when he bumps the horns sprouting from his brow. “I’m growing worried that we’ll wake one morning to find them expired in their bedroll from exhaustion.”

“They’re young.” Gale soothes, taking perhaps a larger gulp of his Ithbank than he originally intended. “Driven. I was much the same at their age, impatient to prove myself worthy to those who equaled me in skill but surpassed me in age. I think with some time and guidance from those in our company they ought to calm down somewhat, mark my words.”

Wyll sighs heavily and lists gently into Gale’s side, solid and warm. “I hope so, for all our sakes. But by the gods, I’m twenty four. I’m too young to be feeling old.”

Gale, in his mid thirties, does not comment on how old that particular comment makes him feel.

“Ah, be that as it may…” He trails off, scratching at the rim of the cup with his nail. “I hate to press, but can I be assured of your discretion in this matter?”

The fond smile that rewards this query near takes his breath away.

“Don’t worry, my friend.” Wyll squeezes his shoulder firmly. “I won’t tell a soul, I swear on mine and my father’s lives.”

Gale is unable to do much more than nod dumbly, soon deciding to turn in before he does anything too daring for sobriety.

It doesn’t keep Wyll from sharing that soft, secretly fond smile with him as they journey onwards, or share conversation in the evenings.

He’s certain it can’t be good for his heart.

***

“Oh, Gale darling~”

It’s almost pavlovian, how Gale’s shoulders hunch guiltily at the affectionate address.

“Astarion. How can I help you?”

“I’ve a sudden and uncontrollable craving for your company. Quite irresistable, I’m afraid. Come,” The pale elf beckons. “Won’t you walk with me?”

It’s a trap. It’s so obviously a trap that Gale would be fool to fall for it.

Astarion tilts his head, peering up at him from under his eyelashes.

Gale falls into step with the weary resignation of a sentenced man making his way to the gallows. Still, the walk is almost nice, getting to gaze upon nature in all its splendor as Astarion somehow manages to make nattering on about everything and nothing sound compelling and engaging.

Right up until he says, “…though that pales in comparison to what I heard you and Wyll talking about the other night, darling.”

All of the muscles in his body lock up like someone had enchanted him by mistake in place of their chest of valuables.

He sighs. “I don’t supposed I could convince you that I’ve no worldly clue what you’re talking about?”

“Hmm, maybe.” Astarion hums. “But then I began thinking about you seemed blissfully unburdened with flashbacks from the Descent when the little bard was conversing with our devil friend. Also the incident with the grease—”

“Yes, well, we don’t need to get into that.” Gale grumbles, wishing he knew how to craft a draught that represses those memories of his early tactical errors.

“Of course, I’m never one to kiss and tell.” Astarion places a hand on his chest, faux innocence practically leaking from every fiber of his being. “But, I might need to ask for a small favour in return. To ensure it stays just between us.”

Gale nods for him to divulge his demand.

“Well, first things first.” The pale elf backs him up against a tree in embrace that has blood rushing furiously to his cheeks. “I should probably let you in on my little secret. I just so happen to be what some colloquially refer to as a vampire.”

“Oh. You’re a vampire?” Gale repeats dumbly. Then, as several key details suddenly slot into place. “Oh fuck, you’re a vampire.”

The newly outed vampire has the audacity to roll his eyes. “Please, I’m a spawn, darling. No need to fret about my turning you. And while I’ve been getting by on animals, I need something more…potent to unleash my full potential.”

His nose, oddly cool now Gale takes note of it, skims over his carotid artery. “And you, my dear, have them all beat for potency.”

The proximity and near-intimacy of it is making Gale’s head spin, which is why he doesn’t think about any potential downsides, until Astarion’s pleased hum after his fangs sink in turns to a muffled sound of incredulity.

“Gale.” It takes him a moment to blink back into himself to register he’s being spoken to. “What the fuck is wrong with your blood?”

“Ah. Well.” He scuffs some of the leaves underfoot with the toe of his boot. “You recall the camp meeting I called last week about the orb of dread Netherese magic in my chest?”

“The what—?!”

“..re you there? Astari—!”

Gale jolts as Astarion springs away from him, the pair of them staring wildly at the unofficial leader of their merry troupe, who looks as mortified as Gale feels. “—Oookay, I did. Not mean to walk in on. You two?”

“You could sound less surprised, darling.” Astarion pouts silkily, not an errant drop of red to be seen.

“I’ll admit it wasn’t who my gold was on,” Yuu mumbles, almost too softly to hear. Gale can’t help but wonder what they mean by that as they raise their voice with a little cough.

“Look, I don’t care if you two want to sneak off and, and give each other hickeys—”

He can feel his cheeks warm violently at the implication. “That’s—!”

“I know, I know, completely none of my business, but.” Yuu comes to an abrupt stop. “Wait. Gale, are you—are you bleeding?”

Gale suddenly realizes the warm slide down his neck that he’d taken for nervous sweat is in fact a substance of the more sanguine variety.

“Erm.” He tries. “No?”

Astarion stares at him, eyes round with disbelief.

“Are you fucking joking?!” He demands, in the same breath as Yuu exhales, “Oh fuck, you’re a vampire. How the fuck did I miss that?!”

“Now, now hold on a moment!” Gale, sensing imminent disaster, steps between them. “Yes, he may be a vampire, but he’s hardly some, some bloodthirsty beast like the tawdry excuses for literature we’ve been scavenging would have us believe! It isn’t like we’ve been waking up to any one of us drunk dry during the night, is it? All five of us, yet Astarion has had the near, near deific self control to hold out until this very evening before requesting—quite politely, if I may add!—if I would find sympathy for his plight and contribute to his welfare so that he can continue to aid us to the best of his ability. As he has done thus far without acknowledgement of his sacrifices.”

Yuu raises an eyebrow at him. “And you agreed?”

He spreads his arms helplessly. “I—How could I not?”

Yuu glances warily between him and the vampire. They pinch the bridge of their nose and let out a sigh.

“If we arrange a voluntary feeding schedule, would that help, Astarion?”

For a moment, the vampire just stares at the two of them, mouth agape.

Slowly, he nods.

“We’ll go over exact amounts and who’ll be participating later.” Yuu announces brusquely. “I need to gently break the news to the others first. Give me an hour, and I should have everyone on the same page.”

“Thank you,” Gale clasps his hands in their direction. “Your foresight is invaluable, as always. You won’t regret this, I promise.”

The would-be bard raises a blithe hand in acknowledgement as they crunch through the leaves back to camp.

“I’m genuinely unsure whether I should kiss you or kill you.”

He blinks at Astarion. “Erm? W-Well, I’d rather. Rather the former than the latter if it’s on the table. Though please don’t take it as an obligation of some kind! I never had any intentions of indebting you to me.”

“Please.” Astarion drawls as he slinks over, looping his arms once more around Gale’s neck. “How could I let such a…gallant defense go unrewarded? And our little bard did say we have an hour, after all…”

“Oh!” Gale says. Then. “O-ohh…”

And, as a gentleman of discretion and valor, he will draw the curtain on the scene there.

***

“Hey, soldier!”

Karlach falls into step next to him as they trudge through the Underdark. Up ahead, he can faintly make out Astarion and Yuu quietly conferring about whether their crossbow or his bow would be more suitable for removing the red glowing mushrooms that litter their path to the wizard’s tower.

“So,” She says, waggling her eyebrows at him saucily. “You and Fangs, eh?”

“Fangs?” He repeats, confused.

“Astarion,” She clarifies. “Even with the donation system and all that, he seems to be sweetest on you. You two a thing at all?”

“Ha! Ah, I’m not sure.” Gale demurs. “On the one hand, even if I have to disagree with your definition of “sweetest”, he has been the perfect gentleman when he’s not busy driving me round the bend. On the other, he apparently managed to tune out all of my explanations about the Netherese orb currently residing in my chest. Claims he was too distracted by my boots, of all things.”

“They are nice boots,” Karlach observes, which does make Gale preen. “Was a bit more taken with you kneeling while pressing Yuu’s hand to your chest, m’self.”

“That was for practical demonstration.” He stresses, cheeks flushing with the belated embarrassment that’s dogged him since about fifteen minutes afterwards. “I could hardly expect you all to take me seriously without proof.”

“Right, and your proof usually involves you getting on your knees, does it?” At his indignant splutter, Karlach lets out a laugh that’s no less lovely for how it resembles a bray rather than bells tinkling. “Joking, I’m joking Gale. Though, if you’re not with Fangs, would you instead say that you’d been involved with Shadowheart? Since the tenday before last? Loudly?”

“Shadowheart? What in—” Gale suddenly notices how his conversation partner’s eyes keep darting to the tailless tiefling a few meters away from them, recalls their comment from the evening Astarion’s secret had been revealed. It all clicks.

“Wait. You aren’t—are you betting on my love life?!” He demands, scandalized.

Karlach shrugs, tip of her tongue caught between the teeth of her unrepentant grin.

“Well, we’ve gotta do something for entertainment, don’t we? The others keep circling around you like they’re wargs and you’re a set of deep rothé ribs! And who can blame them? You’re a catch.”

Gale is for once extremely glad he can blame Karlach’s ambient temperature for the way his face suddenly and inexplicably feels burning hot.

“That’s—! I’m afraid you’ve the entirely wrong end of the staff if that’s your line of thinking.” He says stiffly. “None of them have any truly amorous interest in me, just discussing something. Something private.”

“Oh.” Karlach frowns for a moment.

Then she says, “What, did they work out you don’t have a tadpole as well?”

You’d think, after the fifth time such a revelation was made, Gale would be sufficiently prepared to not have a physical reaction to it.

You would be wrong.

“How?!” The words, meant to sound dignified if resigned, emerge with more of a trimming of petulant whine.

“Known ever since I met you.” She devastates cheerfully. “Got prowling around the Gate from Fangs, dragon’s fire from Lae’zel, training in the dark from Shadowheart, talking down mercs from Yuu, hunting me from Wyll, but from you? Nothing.”

“Ah.” He acknowledges. Then, “So, is that what happens every time you all meet someone new with a tadpole? You get a concentrated history of their past exploits through communication between the parasites?”

Karlach’s mouth twists as she considers. “Hm, I don’t think so? You can still keep secrets, else we’d have all known about Astarion a lot sooner. And the cult leaders woulda had us all killed the moment we walked in. It’s more like…snippets of that person? I’m not sure if it’s bits and bobs about them that are more like you or just what they think about themselves.”

“Fascinating,” Gale breathes. He’ll admit, given all the subterfuge he’s had to go through, he’s only been able to glean piecemeal information about the affliction.

After all, it’s hardly like he could just wander up to the others and ask them about it off-hand. Could he?

“Probably for the best you don’t have it, on the whole.” She stretches, toned muscles standing in stark relief with every movement. “Aside from the whole mindflayer-y thing, you at least didn’t have to deal with Yuu’s hangover in your head.”

Gale winces in commiseration. A lot of people had been plying their erstwhile leader with alcohol at the tiefling party, to the point where they ended up passed out in their bedroll halfway through the evening. From the way they still looked bleary after Shadowheart and Halsin cast Lesser Restoration on them the next morn, Gale would bet all his gold and then some that they’ve very little experience drinking so heavily, if any.

Still, he drums his fingers against his leg as he considers how best to broach this next bit.

“Although…you do understand if I ask that you not repeat this, please? Given that not quite everyone is…aware.”

“Course.” Karlach says, tapping the side of her nose. “Mum’s the word, eh?”

“Quite.” Gale wrings his hands together. He opens and closes his mouth. “And you don’t…want anything?”

Karlach tilts her head. “How’d you mean?”

“You know.” Gale makes a frittering notion with his hands. “Something to buy your silence, or what have you?”

“What?!” She looks askance at him, snorting in a way he finds unreasonably attractive. “What’s the point in that? You don’t want me to tell, so I won’t. Simple as that.”

He can’t help smiling broadly at her, at the way the flames licking off her skin reflect in the vents protruding from her shoulder, off the dancing humor in her eyes.

They both turn to observe their companions are taking potshots at the mushrooms and cheering when one of their projectiles manages to set off a chain reaction.

“Actually, there is something.”

Ah. Damn.

He tenses despite himself. “And what would that be?”

“When I get Dammon to fix my engine proper so I don’t burn anymore,” She decrees with the regality of a queen. “You’ve got to give me a big hug. A proper one. If you want to, ‘course.”

The sudden release of nerves is almost euphoric.

“I’ll hold you to that.” He vows.

[ieiwi]

So here's the thing. All the companions in BG3 are overcoming some form of abuse, right? Like that's THEMATICALLY the whole connecting thread between the companions. Astarion has Cazador Wyll has Mizora (and arguably his father) Shadowheart has Shar Lae'zel has Vlaakith Karlach has Gortash (and Zariel) These characters are all unarguably abused and have to overcome the abuse put upon them, right? (Aside from that really really gross joke in the christmas thing that implied Wyll is into Mizora who has had him chained to her since he was SEVENTEEN, though I can't speak much to Mizora apologia since I don't see it often on my dash - still If I haven't and it does, that shit is wrong.) Why does Gale have to have so many people advocate that NO, actually HE was the bad guy in his story? Like from a writing standpoint, why would there be that anomaly? I genuinely don't know why the debate exists when

1) Mystra HAS memories of her previous incarnation and Midnight IS NOT MYSTRA, not entirely, she is in her current form (from what I can tell here) an amalgamation of her previous selves.

2) Mystra is KNOWN to have abused/lied to people in the past that were her 'lovers' such as Silverhand and Elminster himself, how much she 'remembers' is up for debate, but at the very least she seems to remember her relationship to Elminster.

and 3) The writing again and again codes her as being in the wrong for how she treats Gale.

I really truly do not understand the whole "Mystra is actually a really good guy who cares a lot about Gale" narrative. Is he perfect? ABSOLUTELY NOT. He made mistakes that continue to plague him a la the crown. Yet...he was still abused. He was at the VERY LEAST brought up to revere magic with the help of Elminster discovering his talent at eight and Gale certainly knew OF her (how much her spark of divinity that survived death knew of Gale personally is debatable but I wont get into that here) and moreover, she IS magic itself. She has a massive imbalance of power over Gale mentally and quite literally as a goddess! WRT the whole commentary by Minsc, I have serious doubts that it is factually true in Rashamen, though they do revere Mystra in another form, but I think the writing there was less about "hey lets have Minsc say something random" and more trying to evoke a VERY SPECIFIC IMAGE to the player with regard to mystra. What are we supposed to do with that? Not sure, but to say that people are completely off base when they think of grooming when it comes to Gale feels a little disingenuous when it comes to the writers putting that on the table; they put that there for a reason. So at the end of the day it seems to me just so impossible to read this as anything other than there being a clear narrative thread here regarding the origins and everyone seemingly trying to cut Gale out...and I truly don't get why?

[cancerian-woman]

How do you feel about the constant power upgrades? For example, Klaus was supposed to be the strongest being alive, the hybrid, then he gets replaced by Lucian and Marcel? Or Bonnie who literally had expression at one point and is a Bennet getting replaced by Davina, Freya, Dahlia, etc.

I’ll try not to make this too long. I have some previous posts here. TVDU’s power scaling is all over the place tbh. The Mikaelson’s started off being known as ONE of the most powerful oldest families so naturally someone had to take them down a peg. Which is why characters kept coming stronger. Lucien and Marcel were each consequences of the Mikaelson family. Marcel wouldn’t gone to those lengths had his family treated like family.

All the white witches get to be known as powerful and shown in these various moments alone. All of them do. Esther, Dahlia, Freya, Davina, Hope etc. All are granted their own stand-alone moments. Esther in TVD LEECHED off the Bennett bloodline living and dead. Esther praises Ayana repeatedly until TO. Davina gets complimented by her power consistently in TO. Freya has the “first born Mikaelson” plot. Hope is the tribrid. We’re supposed to respect their titles just from that. Esther had 7 children, and only 2 were witches. Esther and Dahlias village was taken out by Vikings but…anyways. Fans could compare the TO witches to each other but instead they just compare them all to Bonnie. Especially Hope LOL.

Bonnie doesn’t get a lot of credit for being a self-taught witch. She had little to no help post Grams death. Bonnie is a Bennett witch. Her family is the key to the basis of the world building/lore but is never given a plot to themselves alone. Just serving others. The Mikaelson’s had Ayana, The Salvatore’s had Emily/Bonnie. Katherine had Emily and Lucy. The Gemini coven had Grams. Silas and Amara’s had Qetsiyah who created everything by herself. Bonnie’s not just a witch, she’s a psychic-witch. From what we’ve seen of Silas, Bonnie could certainly replicate those psychic abilities. Cade said he’s never seen anyone do what Bonnie did. The other witches are praised for their various titles but it’s very rare to see non-Bonnie fans praise Bonnie for being the one and only psychic-witch. They just say she’s a Bennett witch and leave it at that.

But when it comes to Bonnie’s big moments shared or undone by others. Killing Kai? Damon does it. (If Kai HAD to die it should’ve been by Bonnie’s hand.) Killing Cade? Shared. Petrifying Silas? Oh right well Elena needs her brother so let’s kill Bonnie. Davina can break Klaus sireline and it’s done alone. While in death NO Bonnie can’t have her magic but Davina can. Well make sure Davina is praised fighting the originals as if Bonnie hasn’t already done that. Julie once said that Bonnie was a loophole and needed to be hindered all the time. Which is BS when you remember Freya/Davina etc have had their negative moments but has never lost their ties to magic. Bonnie is the blueprint, without Bonnie or her family white witches don’t have a basis. Every witch in some form is a copy of Bonnie. 🤷🏽‍♀️ . Tvd fans will debate if Bonnie was actually mistreated and in the same breathe pull up something the writers said about Hope/Dahlia/Freya etc to just argue their “Bonnie’s a plot device and her magic is illogical thoughts”

TVD fumbled hard with Bonnie and the Bennett’s. But black authors have been making Bonnie’s character type the basis of their fantasy books lately and has been getting so much success from that. An example being the Legendborn series.

[labratatouille]

History Professor Kyle Broflovski headcanons because my hyperfixation is hyperfixating:

⋆ known to drink red wine from a teapot, Stan will occasionally join him for this reason alone.

⋆ hands covered in rushed ink scribbles 24/7, he’s his own diary.

⋆ to the surprise of basically everybody who has ever witnessed his academic grind-set, unless he is incredibly swamped by work his office remains pretty tidy.

⋆ known to fall asleep at his desk.

⋆ treats lectures like performances, his students thank him for it.

⋆ one time Cartman as a joke edited Kyle’s lecture PowerPoint (with a back-up obviously) to include some incredibly rude images. To his surprise Kyle made direct eye contact with him, sipped his coffee, and ran with it. Nobody suspected a thing.

⋆ he has doctors handwriting, it is illegible, he is not sorry. He also doesn’t believe Stan when he gently lets him know that it is unreadable chicken scratch.

⋆ calls his students nerds, he finds it justified because at least he gets paid to be one.

⋆ while discussing deep and academic historic topics he will not hesitate to swear or use slang, he can and will debate for hours on why he thinks this is fair.

⋆ while his office is tidy, there is certainly an abundance of books. everywhere. every surface, even the floor. bro has his own personal library.

⋆ will buy himself flowers to make his office a bit more cheery, once had a two hour debate with Cartman after buying himself tulips – Cartman is far too into Victorian Flower Language and assumed Kyle had got himself into a secret relationship with this as his pedantic way of announcing it. In character tho honestly–

⋆ refuses to sell textbooks after using them, Kyle and his old textbooks have a parasocial relationship. He annotates them excessively with little doodles and everything.

⋆ actually isn’t super into literature, he was shocked at finding out how into reading Kenny was and is super open to all of the blond’s recommendations. Kenny is the only reason he regularly reads non-fiction books.

⋆ hates the overused Indiana Jones jokes but will not hesitate to make them himself, especially towards Kenny (the walking stereotype of a thrill-seeking treasure hunter)

⋆ odd socks. this man will be wearing the most formal attire ever, refined to the smallest details, then people realise him wearing like one pink sock and one checkered blue sock and be like “ohhhhh screw this guy”

⋆ known for his quick wit and sarcastic comments, always keeping his students on their toes and paying attention to every word he says. When talking to the guys he says that it’s just a tactic to get them to focus, really he just secretly loves being that bitch.

If you’re interested so far then feel free to go check out a fic with this Kyle as one of the main characters on AO3 called Knights Of The Cardinal Compass, a fic where the m4 are all history nerds and go on an adventure looking for the all powerful medieval artefact known as the crusaders compass across continents and far too many cities

AO3: lab_ratatouille

Thank you!! Might be back with a part 2 because this man is special to me <3

[quillyfied]

Hellaverse Theories: Hazbin Hotel S1E8

Welcome to Quilly’s Hellaverse Theories, where I overthink the entire Hellaverse! Last episode of Hazbin time, and after this I’ll start on Helluva Boss (which shouldn’t be nearly as long but I am a windbag so who knows). Let’s go!!

Hazbin Hotel s1e8, here we go:

And here we go again with Vox and his complete reasonable obsession with Alastor and anyone who associates with him, love that for Vox, truly. Best life: he’s living it. But it’s also kinda scary how comprehensive a view Vox has of everyone and everything; we know this already, but watching him watching the Hotel just sort of feels…more violating. Because of audience bonding with the characters, really, but still. There’s a reason why the Vees are a terrifying force to be reckoned with and its real-world reflections make me too sad and full of impotent rage to manage so let’s move on.

Charlie wishing her mom could see this! Sweet! Valid! Somehow super sad knowing where her mom is but not knowing why!!

Well. Vaggie straight-up calls them all “sinners.” So for me that pretty handily puts the “are cannibals sinners” debate to bed. For a while, at least; I’m still gonna be double-checking the blood spatter when the battle starts.

Yeah Pentious giving the grand toast to not dying, I’m not. I’m not emotional. I’m fine.

So this little scene with Alastor and Niffty…intriguing. Seems to show a softer side of Alastor, one where he hangs up the scheming for one minute and admits he’s been enjoying himself, enjoying these people (for their interpersonal drama entertainment value if nothing else). It’s funny and it’s sweet and definitely shows why Niffty sticks with Alastor on the off chance he doesn’t own her soul. And it also has me not completely convinced that when Alastor gets the chance to accomplish his goals by betraying everyone at the Hotel, he isn’t going to feel some level of conflict about it. Getting a character who believes so completely in their own infallibility to crack: the ultimate Good Narrative Food.

(nope hang on angel and husk are flirting pause the analysis have to go squeal about it—)

(I’m a veteran of the Good Omens (TV) fandom and got pulled into watching a snake and reptile care youtube, I know about snake hemipenes, why is the mention that Pentious might have them taking me out at the kneecaps)

Lute being Too Much for Adam never ceases to make me laugh. Or remember that she definitely deserves to be a main villain, at least for a little while. (Alright her name is Lute because “lieutenant” but for the longest time I thought her name was Lute as in “guitar-like instrument” because Adam WOULD, that weirdo; I choose to believe it’s both tbh.) Lute is someone who is way more a foil for Vaggie than anyone else right now, and the absolute struggle in her future is making me excited. ALL ABOARD THE STRUGGLE BUS, LUTE.

I’m sorry I just paused to make another note of something but it’s flown OUT OF MY ENTIRE HEAD because I just realized HUSK AND ANGEL ARE BOTH CRACKING THEIR KNUCKLES AT THE SAME TIME AS THE EXORCISTS APPROACH. WHAT WAS I SAYING??

Right. Vaggie. Got her new wings, and it’s interesting to me that she immediately hides them. Even more interesting to me that she CAN immediately hide them; none of the angels ever seem to, if they even can. That seems a little more…demonic in nature. Because Lucifer certainly can. Sera and Emily change their forms slightly, but the wings stay out at all times (mainly bc it seems Heaven is specifically formed around being able to get around with them on, especially the courtroom). Just one more way that Vaggie is embracing her new life, I suppose.

And here come the Vees, safe in whatever bunker they’ve got, and once again I can’t stress enough how Vox seems to be the only one with any interest in the proceedings. The other two are treating it like Vox dragged them to a sports event that he’s super into and they’re just along for moral support at best. The utter boredom of it all is something I can’t fathom. But I’ll try: this means nothing to them. The Hotel means nothing. The Extermination means nothing because they can just hide from it while the rest of Hell gets slaughtered. They’re cold-blooded ruthless manipulators who might be about to give Lucifer a run for his money if they aren’t stopped. I look forward to season 2 very much. Because on a grand scale, the Vees mean NOTHING. Their games are PETTY SQUABBLES. They don’t rank on the cosmic horror scale because the fight is so much bigger than they are. But they can sure throw wrenches into things!

ALRIGHT HERE WE GO THE PRODUCT OF MY MANY THEORIES ABOUT OVERLORD MECHANICS AND ALASTOR SPECIFICALLY: the shield moment. They seem to be expecting it to happen, so Alastor knew he could do it, but it’s my firm belief that he couldn’t until he made the deal with Charlie. He figured out that he can get powerups just from making deals themselves, or else has been doing it better than anyone else if it’s a known thing, and Charlie isn’t a slouch in the power department. So that’s my theory: Alastor is only able to go toe-to-toe with Adam at all because he’s borrowing a little taste of Charlie’s power from their deal. He’s already plenty powerful, and maybe he could do the shield the whole time, but I do think the deal with Charlie was made at a very opportune time, and Alastor probably only agreed to take on Adam solo because of his overconfidence in himself now boosted with having some of Charlie’s power. I only really have a gut feeling to provide as a source for this, because the only one who proves up to facing Adam is Lucifer; Alastor made a good call, possibly recruiting more of Charlie’s power more directly in a deal when he did, but Charlie isn’t a match for Adam, either, so Alastor very much couldn’t be. He has the speed and the skill to definitely give Adam a bad time, but he can’t withstand the power. Charlie doesn’t have the skill, but she could have the power in time. Lucifer…well, he’s an unfair powerhouse, deus ex machina in a top hat and resolving daddy issues, and we love that for him.

Anyway. Shield. Angels finding out in a very nasty way they can be killed. Adam being his usual misogynistic self. And then Adam deciding he’s over it and obliterating the shield in one punch.

I get the feeling that Adam really doesn’t do much during Exterminations beyond laugh and make tasteless jokes while occasionally smiting demons that get too close or look fun to squash. Because he just effortlessly whips out these shows of power that nobody seems to be able to account for, which makes me think it’s because nobody has ever seen Adam actually try and fight in earnest before. Following the theme of the show, they’re hopelessly outmatched (outgunned outmanned outnumbered outplanned I’M SORRY), and manage to pull a win out of their asses anyway thanks to the power of Love (and pulling Lucifer out of his millennia-long funk for at least half an hour), which Adam very clearly doesn’t have. But. Who needs Love when you have whatever terrifying powerup the higher-ups saw fit to give him?

“A mortal soul is no match for me, edgelord.” Okay. Okay. Here we go. So…Adam isn’t a mortal soul…despite being the first human soul in Heaven. He wields divine light and has a divine axe. Lilith isn’t a mortal soul despite being the original first woman, rules as Queen of Hell when she’s at home, and has an inspiring voice and song to grow Hell’s strength. It’s safe to say that someone else granted them these powerups (Sera/the Seraphim for Adam, Lucifer for Lilith). So…let’s look at Alastor again, just for a sec. He demonstrates ability far beyond what we see any other Overlord or demon do, seems to know his way around deals and loopholes like the slipperiest lawyer in existence, and his rise to infamy was meteoric. It’s a popular theory that instead of Lilith, the person holding the other end of Alastor’s leash is Roo, especially given the repeating eye motif that he has in his magic, but I wonder if Roo isn’t giving him a power-up already, and the deal where he’s caged is something else. If the two are separate in some way.

“You should know better than anyone what a soul can accomplish when they take charge of their own fate.” Now THAT…throws a very different spin on the theory, actually. If Adam and Lilith weren’t gifted their abilities, but took them, Lilith drawing from Hell and Adam from Heaven. If nobody gave either of them anything at all, but they found ways to elevate themselves. Or…made deals, perhaps? Either way, Alastor seems well on his way to becoming something Else just like they are, but. He isn’t there yet. Hence the need to make a deal with Charlie and stick close to her and her budding power. Hence why Alastor couldn’t take on Adam yet.

Y’know. I haven’t mentioned or noticed Alastor’s shadow much. But it certainly is a huge part of his power. Just like the microphone staff, which is broken now oh nooooo. But back to the shadow—the combination of the shadow plus the voodoo aspect of Alastor’s powers are a bit too much Dr. Facilier for comfort (which is hysterical given that Keith David is right there voicing Husk), but the tentacles add a nice touch. Although all of that, plus the deer aspect, plus the possible cannibalism and serial murder, plus the radio—does it seem like Alastor might have too much going on? Because I’m wondering how much of that is his, and how much is alternative powerups from other deals. He made his name as an Overlord killer, after all—and as an Overlord himself, owning souls grants power. I’m certain that whatever supply he’s high on, it’s the only way he was able to survive being first hit by pure holy light, and then cut down by Adam like that. So it must be working for him—but not well enough.

There is something so comedically horrific about how Adam just…vaporizes Pentious, war machine and all. It seems to be a pretty effective death; however, I do have to wonder how it would affect Pentious’ ability to be redeemed if it was angelic steel that got him instead of holy light. Either way, confirming that there are multiple ways to kill demons, angelic steel is just the most straightforward, and wow he’s just wholly gone now, huh? Not even any debris or a body or anything.

(Putting this theory up while I’m thinking about it: concerning Charlie’s deal with Alastor, and specifically the “one favor where you harm no one” bit, a part of me thinks that Alastor is going to have Charlie stand aside and let him kill someone…just to prove that they can be redeemed. Whether that’s Alastor’s purpose or not in killing is up for constant debate in my head, but I do want it made very clear that Pentious wasn’t redeemed until he died. Demonic redemption might require double death; maybe the souls are re-judged on double death anyway. Who knows??)

HEY, BLOOD THEORY CONFIRMATION: Dazzle (gosh I hope I got that right) bleeds black. He’s Hellborn. There IS differentiation in blood colors given in this show. NICE.

So why the ENTIRE HELL does Charlie bleed RED?

It’s subtle, it could be written off as her horns, but it’s there in certain shots; she’s bleeding from the head after Adam throws her into the hotel sign, definite drips that aren’t her horns at all, or bloodstains from possibly being close to cannibals who died. And it’s red. Why is it red? Why does she bleed red like sinners, Viv? WHY DOES SHE BLEED RED, VIV?

Because here’s the only thing I can think of: that means one, she DOES have a soul (an immortal soul, like Adam says, mechanic not metaphor), because two, she might be something close to half-human, or at least half-sinner, or half-whatever the actual hell Lilith is. This makes her powerful, but also incredibly vulnerable, just the same as sinners are with their souls. And it puts her more on their level; she isn’t some above-it-all royal that’s something entire Other from the sinners, she’s sort of partially one of them. (Not to say she doesn’t still have her royal privilege and so forth and et cetera let’s move on.)

Alright Vaggie hiding away her wings is kinda worth it for the badass blink-and-you-miss-it tearing open of the back of her battle uniform to let them out. And, uh, can we give Jessica Vosk ALL the credit for that absolutely unhinged Lute scream as she TEARS HER OWN ARM OFF??

(Also, to the legend who wrote the Lute’s Arm/Vaggie’s Eye fanfic: I didn’t read it but I think of you often.)

But: Lute and Vaggie setting up to be tragic narrative foils, most likely complete with Lute spiraling as she completely loses any sense of self or direction while her world crumbles around her and Vaggie going from suspicious to pitying. When the truth about how fucked up the Exorcist legion is comes out, I’m sure there’s going to be signs about how they were both hurt pretty deeply by being a part of it but handled it differently, Vaggie by being lucky enough to find a support group after she was kicked out and Lute struggling with carrying on the legacy alone. Also, calling it now, if Emily doesn’t Fall, then Lute is definitely gonna try to kill her at least once. Anyway. That’s probably super endgame stuff.

LUCIFER, DEUS EX MACHINA! Or. Uh. Diaboli ex machina? Eh who cares LOOK AT HIM GO. It’s such a fun fight, watching him zing around Adam and shapeshift and be all creative and zany. Right up until it matters—and then he’s all business. Fiery, deadly business. Also how did he get his voice to do that (the “you’re in my house now, bitch” part, not the “go home” part). But it’s such an important moment for witnessing that dreamer that Heaven cast out, the creative powerhouse that just wanted to make something nice, something meaningful. Adam can’t fight him because Lucifer isn’t really fighting. He’s playing. Right up until Adam threatens Charlie again. She’s the only thing worth fighting for to him, after all.

So very interesting to me too that when Lucifer is in his demon aspect, the snake on his hat becomes a halo. (Also, unlike the other Sins, he doesn’t get any taller. Bless him.)

Now. Let’s address the elephant—or, rather, the very small cyclops—in the room. Niffty killing Adam. It’s certainly a twist. It’s the biggest, weirdest twist I’ve ever seen. It kind of doesn’t make any narrative sense. It boggles the brain that Niffty, the littlest demon in the group, the bit side character, gets to kill Adam, the big bad of the season. But in a way…that’s kind of perfect? It DOESN’T make any narrative sense. LIFE doesn’t make narrative sense. Not everything is going to fit into a perfect metaphor. Although, if I tried…Niffty took out the biggest cockroach of all :P Alright I’ll be honest I don’t know. I’d love to read other people’s thoughts on why it happened like this. Because it’s not like I don’t enjoy it as a narrative choice, it’s just so jarring and my English major brain hasn’t made it make sense yet.

Such an unexpectedly tender character moment to have Adam’s dying smile be for Lute, though. Yeah, she’s gonna be REAL hecked up next season. And not because she’s way more homicidal than Adam somehow.

(Also, back to my blood color theory: cannibals bleed red. They’re sinners. Stop the debates, it’s canon and I can prove it now. Kinda. Still got the whole. Charlie bleeding red thing throwing a wrench into my everything.)

And we see some of the littler pieces to finish off a lot of my theories—the Vees’ ultimate plan to seize control of Hell going off pretty well despite the Hotel surviving (not that it mattered to them either way, the plan was to throw the other Overlords off their game and take their stuff, not mess with the Hotel at all); Husk and Niffty going about their days but looking surprised with the rest of the group when Alastor shows back up (and still uncertain if they knew he was alive or dead and if they even would know if he died tbh). But let’s take one last little peep at Alastor before I close the book on him for now.

Y’know. They really do make it unclear if it’s Alastor Altruist, or Alastor, altruist.

But more than that, it’s the first time he acknowledges his deal and the fact that his powers are limited—which is why he might use non-soul deals with others anyway, to get around his soul deal constraints. And if he’s LIMITED and he went to bat against Adam and held his own pretty well, maybe I need to rethink my own assessment of his strength and how he’s leashed (unless, of course, the theories are right and it’s a deal with Lilith keeping him constrained from using his powers except in her service, so he really was at maximum potential in that fight and just isn’t strong enough yet). But he’s confident (as he always is) that once he’s out of his deal, he’ll be where he wants to be, pulling strings and manipulating fates and probably strong enough to replace Lucifer (and wouldn’t it be twisty if Alastor used his favor with Charlie to let him kill and replace her father as King of Hell? Wild. Anyway—). But until then, he’s showing back up at the hotel after it’s been rebuilt, sans staff, and while fanon has latched onto the idea of his wound containing angelic essence that’s slowly killing him…I’m not so sure if canon is going to go that route, but his missing staff is probably way more significant than the wound, and I’m curious about that.

Now forget about these losers, let’s go check out the last two scenes and put proper bows on my last two theories.

First: Pentious, redeemed, showing up before the Seraphim and NOT at the heavenly gates. Convenient for keeping something this reality-shaking a secret! I still don’t know that I’m fully convinced that Sir Pentious is truly the first sinner to be redeemed; I still kinda think he’s just the first one that Sera and Emily noticed, but I’m looking forward to exploring that mystery more next season. Maybe with Molly as an actual character this time? The folks who keep drawing and writing about Molly and Pentious being friends, you’re legends, keep doing that; it will sustain me if I am disappointed.

Second: Lute and Lilith on a beach in Heaven, presumably. Alright, wording: “Adam is dead. Your deal is done, and I’m in charge now.” There is. So much to unpack in that. Starting with “Your deal is done.” Lilith…made a deal…with Adam? Adam made a deal with Lilith? Or Lilith made a deal with someone else, like the Seraphim, and Adam happened to be a condition? The most likely explanation is that Lilith made a deal with Adam, but for what and why remains to be seen. It sure looks like Lilith made a deal with her ex-husband to relax in Heaven and let Hell rot, but things really aren’t as they seem in this show; appearances are constantly deceiving. I’ve heard the popular theory that Lilith and Eve share a body (very, very weird implications if so), and it’s shown in some family portraits that Lilith can banish her horns just like Lucifer can his wings (or Charlie her horns, for that matter), but not showing Lilith’s eyes, keeping her shrouded in mystery—is that to conceal her identity as swapping between herself and Eve, is it just to build mystery about Lilith herself (who again is NEVER HECKING MENTIONED EXCEPT BY CHARLIE AND ADAM), is it for lolz? What the heck could Lilith and Adam have possibly traded for, anyway? Letting Lilith crash in Heaven in exchange for…what? The Exterminations have surely been going on for longer than seven years. Lilith could be imprisoned, but Lute’s behavior and language doesn’t convey that at all. Like, AT ALL.

Additional question: does Lute even have the power to take Adam’s place? Or will she get the power as she assumes command?

Anyway, moving forward in this scene, Lute later says “Your brat is threatening the very foundation of Heaven.” Interesting, showing that Lute is just as fearful of a Hellish uprising as Sera is and what that means for the safety of Heaven and the souls they’re protecting. “And if you want to stay here” And if you want to stay here. IF YOU WANT TO STAY HERE. Lilith is definitely there because she wants to be. Or at least Lute believes she wants to be. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if both Lilith and Lucifer are exhausted with their existences, but it is such a contradictory thing, for Charlie to believe so wholeheartedly that her mother is off doing something important, that she loved Hell and cared about its denizens, only to show Lilith on a beach needing to be threatened with leaving it to get up and deal with Charlie. But, then, Charlie also believed her father didn’t want to see her and didn’t really care about her. It’s possible that Charlie is wrong about her mother. But we have so few clues and it’s easy to assume the worst when this is how Lilith is truly introduced.

One thing I keep noticing and keep forgetting to go back and check for: Lilith’s necklace. There really aren’t very many details that don’t have some sort of thought put into them, and her necklace while laying out on a beach is…eye-catching, at least to me. It’s simple, but I just wonder if it’s present in any of the portraits, because I keep forgetting to check for it. Maybe if I write it down, I’ll remember to keep an eye out next time.

I’m sure that there are theories and threads that I didn’t finish, because I have word-vomited something like 24,000 words of theories and reactions and maddened questions; now that I have it all out of my system, maybe I’ll make organized, reasonable posts where the theories are actually separated and presented as cohesive wholes rather than themes carrying across episodes. But I have to get through my Helluva Boss analyses first!

Thanks so much for sticking around and sticking it out, and if any of this made sense, then I’m glad! Later!

[kingwithpaintedfingers]

You mentioned that you didn't like GW's treatment of certain individual Primarchs. What specifically didn't you like about that treatment?

Mortarion: Waiting until the last minute to consider giving him a consistent personality or set of motivations; using him as a cardboard villain while ignoring his personality/motivations; having everyone he fights break the laws of physics and the settings just so that every victory he has turns into a humiliating defeat.

Fulgrim: Constantly making "haha lol he gay and/or have sex too much what a slut amirite" jokes/stories about him (apparently this is partially a Graham McNeill problem??? He doesn't like Fulgrim or the Emperor's Children so he shits on him whenever he has a chance).

Alpharius/Omegon: claiming that everything they say is a lie and everything they do is a trick so I feel like they're boring be ause they're gimmicks instead of characters, but I get the impression this is the way their fans like it, so IDK.

Angron: Coming up with a backstory for him with a lot of plot holes they don't fill in a satisfying way. Why doesn't the Emperor save his gladiator brothers and sisters? "Well, he's a dick (when it's convenient to us for him to be one)." But that's such an onviously stupid thing to do? "[Shrug]" "Why don't they use medicine to remove the Butcher's Nails?" "Can't be cured by medicine." What about his literally divine father doing it instead? "Uh...he didn't think it was a good idea." Not doing that seems stupid, he's wasting a primarch and an entire legion by letting them go insane. "Well, he just didn't!" Why did he let Angron put nails in his sons' heads? "Well, he sent Leman to do that instead." Right, and when Leman decided not to stop Angron, why didn't he intervene instead? "..."

Angron's whole story is a bunch of characters, mostly the Emperor, deliberately acting stupid. Fans have had to fill the gaps ("an intelligent, de-Nailed Angron would have rebelled against E sooner." Which I think is true, and interesting! Much more interesting than what we got, which is the problem.

And finally, in general...failing to acknowledge the...well, the problems with declaring the entire Heresy to be solely the fault of the rebellious primarchs rather than the fault of the gods manipulating all of the primarchs. As fans have pointed out, all of the primarchs with shitty childhoods rebelled. And the personality problems that led them to rebel were all trauma responses to the suffering they went through. And yet, this is treated as if they were responsible for the way they reacted to the worlds they grew up in. Angron, Konrad, Mortarion, and Lorgar were survivors. And rather than giving them the help they needed to heal, the Emperor and the Gods of Chaos fucking used them, and then blamed them for the things that happened to them, making it seem as if the Primarchs didn't all have reasonable, logical reasons for the things they did and the sides they took. The continual demonization of them bothers me. The traitors did bad things. I'm not debating that. And they are responsible for their actions. But fans and GW try to make it sound like they were also responsible for the emotional responses they had to the world around them, and I don't think that's true. Most people cannot control their emotional responses to things, certainly not people with very little emotional resilience.

Besides, with how grimdark the setting is, and how the Emperor is portrayed, and the way the Emperor and Malcador talk about the primarchs during the Siege?

If they hadn't rebelled, I am 100% convinced that Angron, Konrad, and Mortarion, and probably Lorgar too, would have been executed at the end of the Great Crusade. "Put down" would probably be the phrase used, as if they were animals, as if they were expendable, as if what happened to them was regrettable but ultimately the Right Thing to Do. Some of the traitors were fighting for their fucking lives, and in the case of Lorgar and Mortarion, the lives of their sons as well.

And I'm upset that more people don't understand that, including the writers, who will write a beautiful story about a character and the hardships they endured and all the good things they did and accomplished and felt in spite of themselves in one story, only for the same author to turn around in the next book and make the character look like an unjustifiable monster. (I will keep that last bit vague, because the author I'm vaguing actually has a Tumblr account.)

So yeah. Hopefully that answers your question. Characters I like are written to be unlikeable and framed as monsters...the usual.

[mask131]

Green spring: Midsummer Night’s fairies (2)

PUCK AND OBERON before Shakespeare

Category: European folklore

This is a follow-up post to my previous Green spring entry, about Shakespeare’s famous trio of fairies – Puck, Oberon and Titania from “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”. While I previously briefly looked at them in the context of their theater play (though I just stayed at the surface-level of things, I invite you to search on your own for all those Shakespearian complexities), with this post I want to look at their actual folkloric and legendary origins – because Shakespeare didn’t actually invent those fairy characters out of nowhere!

Well… Except maybe for Titania. There are several fairy queens in British folklore, but Shakespeare doesn’t seem to have taken inspiration from any of them when creating Titania – as I said before she seems to have been mostly based on the nymphs and goddesses of Greco-Roman myths, with an emphasis on Ovid’s Metamorphoses. But for Oberon and Puck, that’s a whole other story…

1) Puck outside of Shakespeare

Puck or Robin Goodfellow is actually a pretty well established character of British folklore – he was mentioned in several literary works and theater plays well before Shakespeare. A pretty well-established character… or a pretty well established species. For you see, while there are many accounts of a supernatural entity called “Puck” or “Robin Goodfellow”, sometimes there are also records of several of them existing at the same time, to the point people talked about the “Robingoofellowes”. In fact, remember how in Shakespeare’s another name for Puck was “Hobgoblin”? Well it was the case in folklore too: the Robingoodfellowes were treated as identical to the Hobgoblins as a race – or to the Hobgoblin as a unique character.

Let’s talk a bit etymology. Hobgoblin. What’s the difference with a regular goblin? Well… there are debates about the “Hob”. “Hob” has been attested in the midlands of England (the Anglo-Scottish border) as a term designated all supernatural beings, and treated as a synonym of “elf” – so a “hobgoblin” would be an “elf-goblin”. Other point out that “Hob” might be a deformation of “Rob”, aka… short for “Robin”, of “Robin Goodfellow”. And what about this “Goodfellow” part? Well it certainly wasn’t because he was such a good fellow… The common explanation is that it is a naming convention similar to how fairies and elves were called “the fair folk” or the “good neighbors” by the people of England – it is an ancient technique according to which when a being is dangerous or poses some kind of threat, you need to give them flattering and nice name in hope of avoiding their wrath or not offending them. As such, the Robin would have been called a “Goodfellow” because people feared his mischief and wanted to please him;

Because that’s one of the main characteristics of the Puck: his mischievousness. A Robin Goodfellow was considered a kind of “spirit” (supernatural being), but more “familiar and domestical than the others” – it means that Robin Goodfellows tended, for unknown reasons, to settle into one given place, usually a human building, and treat it as if it was their own house, refusing to leave. This position makes him eerily similar to other “domestic fairies” and “familiar spirits” of the local lands: the brownies of Scotland, for example, with whom the “hobgoblins” were often confused. After all, both were described as small, hairy men that lived in human’s houses, and who did all sorts of chores around the place when the human inhabitants were asleep (dusting, ironing, needle-working, butter-churning…), often in exchange for some food left for them (usually white bread and milk left by the housewives) ; and just like brownies, hobgoblins were said to be banished from a house if someone offered them clothes (for some it is because with new clothes, they will be too proud to work, others say it is because they will get offended by this gift). But the main difference was that, while the brownies are described as peaceful entities all about serving mankind, as I said the hobgoblins were pranksters primarily concerned with joking and goofing around – their duties to the house or the people was just a secondary trait of theirs. That, and how much… let’s say “moody” the pucks are – on top of the “offering clothes” above, it is said that if you displeased a puck in any way, he would promptly undo all of the chores and small work he did around the house through various tricks ; or that if you neglected him, he would start stealing around, claiming that the things in the house would make as a due payment for his services.

The main signs of the presence of a “Robin Goodfellow” in your house are strange and unusual noises: often hidden or invisible, but sometimes in plain sight, the Goodfellowes like to mock people out loud or imitate them ; they also like to produce music that seemingly comes from nowhere, and to produce all sorts of loud, unusual or annoying noises (such as bells ringing) ; and if you call them, they will answer you. However, despite being able to spook and frighten people, the Puck is constantly said to actually be harmless to people (or to cause very little damage). A puck is usually just a laughing and merry spirit who only does “jests and gawdes”, and in fact can communicate and appear so regularly to the owner of a house that said owner will lose any fear of it and get used to its presence.

Outside of the “Robin Goodfellow”, the most famous of all hobgoblins, other renowned mischief-makers included Robin Roundcap of Spaldington Hall, Blue Burches of Blackdown Hills, or Billy Blind talked about in the ballads of F. J. Child.

2) Oberon before Shakespeare

Oberon is an hybrid case. He wasn’t entirely invented by Shakespeare, like Titania, but he also simply wasn’t plucked out of local folklore, like Puck. What Shakespeare did was take a renowned literary figure, and reshape/rewrite it to become his king of the fairies everybody knows today.

And to look back at Oberon’s evolution, I will invite you to go back to my “Cold Winter” series, and take a look there at my post about Alberich. Remember Alberich? The magical Germanic dwarf that guarded the treasure of the Nibelungen in Siegfried’s story? Well he is the start of Oberon’s story. In fact, if I haven’t said it before, Alberich very names points out what he will become in the future, since it means “ruler of the elves” (alb, elf ; rih, ruler or king ; alb-rih, alberich).  

But if you know your Germanic/Norse texts, you’ll think that Alberich is a far cry from Shakespeare’s Oberon. Where is the missing link? Well the missing link is the country between England and Germany: France. In the 13th century, a “chanson de geste” (basically a poem about the exploits of a great figure) was written, called “Les Prouesses et faitz du noble Huon de Bordeaux” (The prowess and acts of the noble Huon of Bordeaux). It tells the story of Huon, the son of the count of Bordeaux, who ended up murdering in self-defense the royal prince and to obtain a pardon, must undergo a redeeming pilgrimage/quest. As he is leaving, Huon travels a forest called Monmur where an elf is said to dwell, and Huon was warned before not to talk to it. They encounter a child-sized, but very handsome man, and Huon’s companion recognizes the elf – he tells Huon to flee without talking to it, to avoid falling into some sort of supernatural trap. But no matter how much they try to outrun him, the pretty-looking dwarf keeps following them, trying to start a conversation, and ultimately Huon proves himself too polite and decides to stop to chat a bit with the elf, who as it turns out is named Auberon (a deformation of Alberich). In exchange for this talk, Auberon offers Huon and his companion to eat and sleep at his dwelling – and he turns out to be a pretty powerful fairy of royal blood! For you see, as it is revealed, Aubéron is the half-human son of Julius Caesar, and the half-fairy son of Morgue, queen of the fairies of Avalon (note: Morgue is a local French deformation of the name “Morgan”, and the recurring character of the Morgue fairy is a literary cousin or double of the Arthurian Morgan). We also learn that he got his small size due to a curse that an angry fairy threw at him upon his christening (yep, just like in the fairy tales), but the same fairy later came to regret what she did, and added a blessing: that he would be more beautiful than any mortal man, and the most virtuous of all the Earth-dwellers.

Auberon, who now considers Huon his friend, offers him two gifts for his upcoming Babylonian adventures. One is a magical cup (well… a hanap to be precise) made of gold, that is always empty when a wicked man holds it, but always full for those with a pure heart. The other is an ivory horn – if Huon blows into it, Auberon will arrive with his invincible magical army to help him. BUT… in exchange Huon must do two promises. One, to only blow in the horn in case of extreme need. Two, to never lie. If Huon breaks one of these promises, he will lose Auberon’s friendship. Despite that, Huon breaks the promise soon after leaving Auberon’s domain – out of vanity, he blows into the horn, and when Auberon arrives he scolds heavily Huon. But in front of Huon’s sincere excuses, Auberon agrees to forgive him. He also throws in a warning about a nearby town Huon shouldn’t go into, because its king kills all the Christians that enter it ; he adds a prophecy announcing that Huon will have many trials in his quest, and that he won’t be able to succeed in his journey without suffering, before disappearing. Huon still however gets entangled with the Christians-killing king, and as he is trapped in his city he uses the ivory horn again – Auberon arrives and with his army helps defeat the wicked king. But he then warns Huon of not entering a second city, where dwells a giant called Prideful – this warning is sincere, as the fairy-king explains that even with all of his mighty powers, he could not defeat the giant. Huon will however manage such a feat.

Much later in the story, Huon will lie in the city of Babylon, where he is threatened with being put to death if he is Christian – since he pretends to be pagan, Auberon withdraws his friendship, and the next time Huon blows in the horn Auberon refuses to answer. After many more trials, including imprisonment and torture, Huon is chosen by the emir of Babylon as his champion to fight a giant called Agrapart, the brother of the deceased Prideful who is seeking revenge. Upon entering this fight, Huon suddenly regains the friendship of Auberon and his magical items work again – and after more fights, Auberon appears to Huon and warns him as he is about to go home with a lovely girl he fell in love with. He warns Huon to not have sex with the girl before their union has been blessed by the Pope himself in Rome – but, as usual, Huon disobeys, has sex with her on the ship crossing the sea, which causes a huge storm and a shipwreck… Anyway I won’t recap the entire epic, because it is long and convoluted, but basically there’s this cycle of Huon calling Auberon whenever he needs help, and Auberon constantly warning Huon about future trials but the knight refusing to listen to the elf’s prophecies. In fact, at one point Huon will reject Auberon because he deems him the “cause” of all of his misfortunes, blaming the dwarf’s prophecies rather than his own refusal to listen to the warnings he has been constantly given… But all on his own, Huon proves that he can get into a very big mess because upon returning home, he loses the precious objects he had gained in his quest to obtain his pardon, a conspiracy is organized to make him look like a liar in front of the king, and he is about to get sentenced to death despite his friends’ attempts at saving him… Auberon, crying for the fate of the one he thinks of as his protégé, ultimately decides to interfere himself – he appears out of nowhere in the royal court where Huon’s trial is organized (which terrifies everybody), he uses his magical gold hanap to prove who is virtuous and who is wicked, he scolds heavily the king for being fooled by the conspiracy, he uses magic to have the stolen objects of Huon appear in front of everyone, and when the real culprits behind the whole thing are found… Auberon has gallows appear by magic to hang them on the spot. In the end, Auberon even goes as far as offer his kingdom to Huon and his new wife – so that they may rule over it.

This French epic got a huge success, so big it had several sequels and prequels written about it (such as one detailing the adventures of Huon as the “King of Féerie”), and due to the importance of the character of Auberon (after all he actually opens the novel, is a key character and even solves the climax), he also got his own side-novel detailing his own adventures and romances outside of his involvement with Huon. It is very probably that Shakespeare learned of the character of Auberon through the English translation of the original poem, “Huon of Burdeuxe”, by John Bourchier in 1540.

- - - - -

One last origin story should be talked about… The one of Puck. Yes, I have already written about Puck outside of Shakespeare… But of the English Puck! You see, the English “Puck” is part of a wider family of beings, all local variations of a same creature. “Puki” in Sweden and Iceland, “pwca” in Welsh, “pouque” in the Channel Islands, “bucca” in Cornland… And “puca” in Ireland. And “puca”, the Irish puck, offers a fascinating variation of the puck myth.

[Note: The proper Irish term is púca, plural púcai, which is a word also used as a synonym for “ghost” in Irish, while “puca” without the accent is the Old English term, that was used as a synonym of “goblin” ; but given I can’t type easily the accent, I’ll write “puca” from now on].

So, what is the “puca”? Well… it is a fairy, a spirit, a creature that can mean either good or bad fortune. Puca were renowned shapeshifters, able to take on a lot of appearances: they could become a horse, a goat, a cat, a dog, a hare, a rabbit, a raven, a fox, a wolf… But they usually always take the shape of a black animal, and sometimes can be betrayed by other unusual fact (they can appear as wild colts, but wrapped in chains, or as beautiful and sleek horses, but with glowing golden eyes). Interestingly, the most difficult shape they can take is apparently the one of a human – because whenever they appear as a man, they are always betrayed by other animal ears or an animal tail.

On their “bad fortune” side, the pucai are terrifying and menacing entity, whose intentions range from mischievousness to pure wickedness. As horses, they encourage humans to ride on their back, only to take them on a wild and terrifying journey before dropping them back at the place he met them. If they meet an unwary traveler on the road, they will confuse and spook them, if not outright harm them. Children were also warned to not eat overripe blackberries, because a puca could have slipped inside the berry and might be trying to enter the child’s body. Found in isolated and rural areas, some stories even turn the pucai into horrific monsters: carnivorous beasts that hunt down humans to eat them, or vampire-like entities sucking the blood of their victims.

In its “good fortune” side, the puca was said to often appear to warn or prevent an accident, or an encounter with a malevolent spirit/fairy. They could give good advice to the people they met, or guide them away from harm. It was also said that when a puca tried to trick you into a ride, you could control and subdue the creature by wearing sharp spurs – to the point that pucai were said to never try to prank or harm someone who wore sharp spurs (or the “sharp things” as the pucai call them). Only one man was known to have used a puca as a ride (or THE puca, since it is unclear if there is only one or several of them) – Brian Boru, one of the high kings of Ireland, who stole three hairs from a puca’s tail, used them to create a magical bridle, and used it to subdue a puca into becoming his regular horse.

The Puca is intensely associated with the Celtic festival known as Samhain (31st of October), and the following “November Day” (1st of November). Samhain was the last possible time for farmers to bring their crops inside their farms – anything left out in the fields beyond Samhain was “puka”, aka “fairy-blasted”, aka inedible. On the 1st of November, it is said you can meet the puca on the hills or mountains, and if you ask for it he will give you prophecies and warnings. On the same day, the puca is said to spit or defecate on all the wild fruits he encounters, making them dangerously inedible ; but it is also thought that the 1st of November being the “puca’s day”, it is the only day on which he will be civilized and polite towards human beings. Some farmers also like to leave a small part of their harvest out for the puca during the Samhain festival – especially in County Down, where the puca would appear as a disfigured goblin to demand his due if his share of the harvest wasn’t given. EDIT: I was also recently informed of other works involving Oberon and showing his evolution, so I will list them here for now. Purcell's "The Fairy Queen" (not to be confused with Spenser's The Fairy Queen) ; Greene's "James IV" and Christoph Martin Wieland's "Oberon"

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

I got a really interesting reply to one of my posts the other day, and that reminded me that Last Week Tonight s09e10, from last May, is one of my favourite episodes of that show. Certainly my favourite of the last couple of seasons, and one of the best they’ve ever done, I think. I decided to re-watch it today, and write down some stuff about what I think makes it so good.

First of all, obviously the two issues discussed are important. I’m pretty sure that episode was meant to be just about the then-upcoming Philippines’ election, but the draft of the decision to overturn Roe v Wade was leaked that week, so they added a story about that as well. My guess is that they’d been working on the abortion story anyway, presumably knowing this was coming since Amy Coney Barrett got confirmed on the Supreme Court, but had it planned for a future episode and made a last-minute decision to add it to that one in light of the surprise leak.

The abortion story was huge, obviously. It’s one of the biggest historic moments in American politics in my lifetime. Much bigger than, say, the election of Donald Trump. Because this is the overturning of something that’s been this way for decades, and getting it back in place will take a lot more than four years. It’s also a really, really big deal. Abortion rights are tied to pretty much every other aspect of life in a prosperous society – education, employment, socioeconomic mobility, domestic violence, child and family poverty rates, obviously short- and long-term health care, obviously social and economic gender equality, and stability of life in general.

Americans who were very young when this was changed are going to grow up in a world where it’s normal for Roe v Wade to not exist, and that is going to create a fundamental shift in the culture with incredibly far-reaching and long-term consequences. It moves the Overton window, moves what rights people think they’re inherently owed. Even if states where it remains legal, it becomes up for debate instead of inalienable. It’s a reminder what at one time or in place is seen as a fundamental right that needs to be open to everyone, can, in a different time or a different place, be debatable or just not there at all.

Every time there’s a federal election in Canada, the news covers whether certain populations are being disenfranchised, including the prison population. They covers ways that prisoners’ constitutional right to vote, arguably (and it’s a strong argument, in my opinion) the most inalienable right we have in a democracy, is being functionally denied to them because Elections Canada is failing to cater to them. Yes, a prisoner could technically write a letter to request a mail-in ballot, get it, and send it in. But even then there are problems with prisons not treating that mail with the appropriate care, not postmarking it correctly, letting it get lost. And it only works if they prepare many weeks in advance; sometimes the process of getting and sending in a ballot from prison can take longer than the election campaign, which means the vote can’t be counted. Some prisons offer polling stations in there, but even then it often isn’t open for long enough for everyone to use it. Therefore, there are several organizations working to make sure every single prison has a polling station that’s available to every single prisoner.

CBC ran stories about this in the last two Canadian federal elections, and I always found it interesting because I have an uncle who lives in America and was in prison for a couple of years there, and he can’t vote at all. Not just couldn’t vote while he was in prison – he can’t even vote now that he’s been out for quite a few years. And not just that voting isn’t made accessible enough for him, that they put up barriers that makes it harder to vote on a practical level. He’s just not legally allowed to vote.

It’s so different – here, we’re arguing about how it’s not fair that it’s hard for them to access this inherent democratic right, which compromises the entire concept of democracy if it’s taken away. There, apparently some states are debating about whether to give them the right at all. Which is an interesting view for the country of “no taxation without representation” (and to avoid falsely claiming too much high ground, it’s also interesting that in Canada, a lot of the athletes I coach are immigrants, here completely legally but with some status besides citizenship, they and their families work and pay taxes but still can’t vote, and it’s almost like taxation’s ties to representation matter less when a statistical majority of the people affected are not white).

That’s something I thought of when Roe v Wade was overturned. How soon people will be used to this, and the debate in many American states will stop being about how to make abortion accessible on a practical level, it’ll become whether to allow it at all. For almost my whole lifetime, I’ve seen news stories in the States and in Canada (again, Canada can’t claim a lot of high ground on this one) about how it’s a problem that so many people who want to access their fundamental right to health care in this way are blocked due to everything from not enough clinics to high costs to mobs of threatening protesters who block the entrances. But soon, like with prisoners’ enfranchisement, it will just be the status quo in many American states that if the debate ever comes up at all, it’s about whether to allow it, not how to make it accessible.

Anyway, those are some rambling thoughts on why the first story in that Last Week Tonight episode was of monumental importance. The second story, about the election in the Philippines, was also incredibly important, though I’m not going to say so much about it just because I don’t want to be that Western person giving my views on a story about a country I know little about, where most of my knowledge comes from that 20-minute Last Week Tonight segment. I do have a little more than that, CBC covered the story at the time, but not enough for me to actually know what I’m talking about. Having said that, a small amount of knowledge around the world about this is better than none, so I think it’s very good that they did that story.

Both stories illustrate what Last Week Tonight does well, which is tell a story from something closer to the beginning than what we often hear. They back up and give context, not just recent context but historical context as well. Why is this happening and how did we get here? That’s something I find interesting to know about everything, and for small things that I like, digging up all the history is allowed to just be interesting. But for big issues with actual impact, understanding historical context is much more than just an interesting hobby - it’s vital. Forgetting historical context is a massive underlying cause of, not to overstate it (and I don’t think this is overstating it), pretty much every major problem in the entire world. Both the abortion story and the Philippines’ election story were stories about what happens when we ignore historical context, and this episode make an effort to cram a summary of as much history as possible into two twenty-minute segments to try to kick a small dent into the problem.

Okay. So that’s the important stuff in this episode. The important, globally impactful issues that the episode took on. But aside from that, I’ve realized that about 3/4 of a year later, a number of little bits from that one episode have stuck in my mind and my vocabulary, even if they didn’t take off for the rest of the world. I can think of three in particular, which ends up being quite a lot for one 40-minute episode of television.

First off, the beginning. I still remember when I started this episode – I was house sitting at the time, and sitting in the bedroom of that other person’s house with my laptop, not prepared for this. It had been a long week of getting angry about things, including about the American abortion draft leak, and I knew Last Week Tonight would spend some time validating my anger, and that would be a bit difficult in the moment but make it easier overall. However, it doesn’t start that way. It eases into that with some silly jokes about pop culture or whatever, so I sat down expecting that.

He came straight out with: “I’m John Oliver, thank you so much for joining us, look, it’s been a truly terrible week.” Writing that down now, I’m not even sure why it hit me so hard in the moment, but it did. Because he has done lots of shows after some fucking awful weeks, but still starts with some kind of joke. It marked this out as special, showed awareness of the gravity of the situation, right out of the gate. He then told us this week had been so bad they were going to make the unusual move of having two main stories, because they couldn’t leave one out. And then he jumped straight into the first one, without doing the usual opening pop culture jokes.

Then he reminds us of the episode they did, in an early Last Week Tonight season, about the erosion of access to abortion. In that episode, they had a running thing where he kept saying he knew it was depressing, but he had a video of sloths playing that he’d show us at the end, as a reward for us sitting through this harrowing story. The episode did end with some absolutely adorable sloths in a bucket, it was lovely.

In the May 2022 episode, he told us: “If you’re expecting something similar this time, I’ve got some bad news for you: Those sloths are dead now.” The original abortion episode aired in February 2016, and that line is just such a perfect encapsulation of how the world has changed since February 2016. In February 2016, the big threat to abortion was a rule that said it could not be carried out in a facility with hallways that were too narrow. People were fighting tooth and nail to avoid having that rule pass, because it would make it harder for people to access their constitutionally guaranteed right. Those sloths are dead now. On the 2012 American election campaign trail, Mitt Romney was accused of using coded language that could be interpreted as racist if you can decode the dog whistle, and this was seen as a big problem. Those sloths are dead now.

Personally, I think that should become an actual meme. I think “those sloths are dead now” should be understood to mean things have fallen so far that what seemed like a big deal years ago is completely gone and we’re in a different world.

It doesn’t have to be about politics, either. I almost used that in a post I made last week, about what comedy I got into in 2022. I said I listened to Daniel Kitson’s stand-up shows on from every year between 2004 and 2009, in chronological order. Throughout them, he built up this beautiful world that he lived in of fun and magic and community, and of course there was melancholy and frustration and uncertainty, but it had an underlying theme of being so sure that he’d surrounded himself with what he loved. Then, according to the Bandcamp catalogue, he just drops off for four years, and comes back in 2013, like: all those sloths are dead now. In that case, it didn’t mean the whole world had gone to shit. It meant his friends moved away and had kids and apparently this is just what life is like until you die. But when explaining how bleak it felt to go straight from 2004-2009 to 2013 in his shows, I almost said it was like when John Oliver re-visited the abortion issue six years after his original episode on it and just said “all those sloths are dead now.” I didn’t say that in my post, because that post was already way too long and I didn’t want to add an explanation of what this Last Week Tonight reference means. Therefore, I think that should take off as a meme so we can all use it and be understood without having to stop and explain it. If I say “all those sloths are dead now”, that’s what I mean. Glad we’re all on the same page.

Next, still near the beginning, John Oliver quotes something that says abortion is not entrenched in the United States’ history and traditions. I knew what his response would be before he even said it, because I know what the correct response to that is and I know John Oliver gets these things right. The correct response is 1) America does, in fact, have a long history of people getting abortions in one way or another so that statement is incorrect, and 2) that’s not the point, it wouldn’t matter if it were true, we should not base today’s rights on what’s rooted in tradition. John Oliver expressed that point as:

“Even if that were true, which by the way, fuck off, the framers probably left off the specific right to abortion because they couldn’t anticipate it being such a massive concern.”

Unlike with the sloth thing, this was far from the original version of that way of putting things, but it’s something I really like. Because I really hate the oversimplifications that occur in public discourse, so in the arguments that I’m having in my own head with everyone else in the world for every moment of every day (and sometimes out loud or in writing as well, but definitely always internally), I am constantly adding caveats and “okay, three things about that”, and “well in this case it would be this but in that case it would be another thing” and “even if that were true, it would still be like, but if it weren’t true then this, and also a secret third thing, does that cover all the bases?”

This is a very tiring way to go about life, so I really like it when comedians do that thing where they pretend they’re about to go into a complicated explanation of something, and then say “fuck off” instead. It’s not a bit that John Oliver invented, and it’s definitely not a bit that he invented in May 2022 (I’m fairly sure I’ve heard him do it as early as 2007), but it’s one he quite likes and I enjoy it every time. It’s just wonderfully cathartic to hear someone say, “Actually, I’m not going to waste my time engaging with your bad faith argument, I’m going to say fuck you and move on. So fuck you.”

Again, this is unlike “all those sloths are dead now” in that John Oliver did not invent it. Hari Kondabolu has a bit I like, where he says that sometimes people ask him why he doesn’t do an accent when quoting his parents during a stand-up routine, and pauses like he’s about to go into an nuanced explanation of how the way his parents speak is not inherently demeaning but in a culture that demeans Indian accents he doesn’t want to play into that, and then he just says, “And the reason I don’t do the accent is because fuck you, that’s why.”

It's also used nicely in this antidote to the Jordan Peterson fans’ cries of “But any argument against Peterson that doesn’t involve watching many many hours of his lectures so you know all of his talking points and can respond exactly to every single thing he’s ever said is just lacking nuance, you can’t just hear him say something misogynist or transphobic or racist and say that’s wrong, that means you don’t have a deep enough understanding, you’re just throwing surface-level insults at him because you don’t understand his depths!” Spoiler alert: Even if you do watch many many hours of his lectures so you can know exactly what you’re talking about and engage with all his points, they still won’t accept any criticism of him, I had a waste a lot of my own time to learn that and I highly recommend that no one else bother to do so. Listening to a band reply to those cries with “Call this our ad hominem and go the fuck away” is very satisfying, if you happen to have wasted too many hours thinking anyone would be swayed by genuine discussion.

Anyway, the point is that John Oliver saying that in that episode, and in that way, now comes into my mind every time I do that, saying “fuck off” instead of making a point that I cannot be bothered to make. So that’s another really small moment from this one episode that has endured for months with me. But there was one more thing like that, a bit from near the end of this episode that I liked so much I cut out and saved the clip at the time.

Personally, I believe this one should also be a meme. Later on when I was listening to the post-Oliver Bugle episodes, and heard a bit that seemed relevant, I cut that out and put them together. So you can click that link to see how the original video clip sounded, and the sort of thing I mean when I point out the versatility of that phrase as a meme. But I think all we really need to have that meme take off is this gif:

I think there are many contexts in which this is an appropriate reaction gif. So here you go, internet, that one’s yours to keep.

Finally, it’s somewhat common for people to make jokes about how Netflix will give a stand-up special to anyone who wants to talk shit about minorities for an hour, but I’d like to give some credit to Last Week Tonight for going as far as to mock up an image of what a fictional one of those would look like. It’s a very accurate parody:

All that in one slightly extended episode - this one was about 40 minutes instead of the usual 30-ish. And that is my thesis on why s09e10, in May 2022, is one of the best Last Week Tonight episodes of all time.

[ectonurites]

For me an industry plant is "someone who may or may not be that talented, but they’re still pushed to stardom because they have an entire company marketing/investing in them" and using this term on a fictional character is kinda tricky, but I do think it can be applied to Tim, since *on average* DC's writers/editors tend to showcase him in a more positive light compared to other Batman-related characters due to their bias towards him.

Personally speaking, I have seen way more writers claiming that Tim is their favorite Robin compared to the other Robins (although Dick is a close 2nd) Which explains why they're desperately trying to make his whole thing be "he's the best Robin!" by always making him appear smarter/more capable than the others and why he is rarely treated in a negative manners by the narrative compared to lets say Damian or Cassandra, who had awful storylines with the goal of demonizing them for no other reason than "someone in a high-position in the company hates their guts."

Well I mean, if we're using different definitions for the same term then obviously we're gonna come to different conclusions about it sgdfdhgfjhg

Like when I hear 'industry plant' I can not separate that from the idea that their connection to the larger entity backing them is kept secret/downplayed—that just feels like way too large a piece of what the term actually means to be tossed aside. Every one of the multiple definitions for the term that I came across while searching includes something about that aspect of it. To include a few:

Noun. industry plant (plural industry plants) (slang, derogatory) A music artist associated with a label but appearing as if they are independent and self-made. (slang, derogatory, by extension) A music artist whose popularity is perceived to be due to marketing efforts alone. (x)

An industry plant is an artist who has Major/Indie Label backing their movement but presents themselves as a "home grown start up" label to create a pseudo organic following. They act as if things are miraculously happening for them based on their talent (via blog coverage, media coverage, mtv playing their vids, etc.) The reality is a low risk/high reward situation for labels looking to build the next "new star" (x)

The term ‘industry plant’ is a musical term derived colloquially from hip-hop which is understood to mean, “an artist who has a major/indie label backing their movement but presents themselves as a ‘homegrown start-up’ to create the illusion of an organic following”. (x)

Even in the early days, there was some debate about how best to define an Industry Plant. On a fundamental level, it is an artist whose development takes place away from the public eye. While the major label downplays its influence, it quietly hones the artist into a star. While their rise to fame might appear to be organic, it’s actually been meticulously planned by a major label. As a result, Industry Plants are usually regarded as lacking authenticity. In the eyes of genuinely DIY artists, the Plant is merely a puppet whose success results from someone high up in the music industry ensuring they have the best connections. The key element here is deception. (x)

So the lack of an attempt to deceive/downplay a connection to a bigger entity/character is what makes me really really strongly disagree with the term applying to him.

I also think there’s something else to address in what you’re saying, which is maybe another reason we disagree here:

I think it's totally fair to say that nowadays there is a bias from people at DC towards Tim which makes them prioritize him over others. I'm 100% in agreement with you on that part, and it's annoying the way they try to push him as the 'best Robin' and downplay other characters like Damian and Cass.

But that became a problem after Tim had already become popular.

Like, he certainly had a dip in popularity for a while (largely bc of the New 52) and one could argue there’s been a sort of artificial push to bring him back to popularity in recent times… but when we're talking about the idea of him as an 'industry plant' I think we need to be looking specifically at when he first rose to popularity like 30 years ago. Because otherwise we’re not talking about how/why he became popular in the first place, we’re talking about the effects (and ups and downs) of his existing popularity.

When Tim was introduced and first rose to popularity in the late 80’s/early 90's.... that was years before Damian or Cass as we know them (i say this because technically the baby that would become Damian existed but like, that is not the same character) were introduced to even compare to the way you’re talking about.

At the time he was created, DC wanted to fill the Robin/‘Teen Bat Character’ spot after readers voted to kill Jason because they didn’t like him… Thus, Tim was designed to fit a specific niche—DC knew there would be an audience for a new Batman sidekick as long as they learned from what happened to Jason and created a character different from him that would be better received. Back then it's not that he was 'the young Batman character that people internally decided they like more than the others and thus push more' it's that he was 'the young Batman character'.

He had the opportunity to become a popular character because of being Batman’s new sidekick and managing to be more well received than Jason. Like, that's really it. But that was totally out in the open—he was by Batman's side before he got his chance to go solo, and promo for his solo made a point of bringing up Batman and featuring him. The connection to Batman was always incredibly clear and highlighted.

When we're trying to apply these slang terms from other industries to comics, Tim's situation is just far closer to 'nepo baby' than anything else. He had the opportunity to become popular because he was designed to fill a specific niche connected to an already popular character.