#we have the ability to contain multitudes...

[housederiva]

I'm confused, you're a Sollavellan romancer? I thought you were queer and nonbinary????

I am all three?

[elkian]

Something I noted in the Hobbit that's started to rear its head in Fellowship is this:

Tolkien, again and again, stresses the importance of resting.

You have to rest. You have to sleep. Danger is on the way, yes, but it isn't here yet and you'd be better off being rested for when it comes.

You have to recover. You're wounded/starved/traumatized, you need to rest. Both Bilbo and Frodo's early journeys include months-long stays in Elrond's house.

And you have to eat. Things look grim, and having a full belly won't stop that, but it will make you better-prepared to handle it. Bilbo's journey and company nearly die from starvation in the Mirkwood, to the point that being taken prisoner by an unknown nation was a better prospect.

And yeah we can point at Tolkien's personal experiences (though idk if it's quite the same for when the Hobbit was written), but he's not wrong. You have to rest. Staying up for days on end to face endless danger is a great line in an epic poem from ages past, but in the here and now, you are mortal and you need. to. REST.

I don't have the language for it at the moment (I'm overdue for dinner myself), but I love that an integral part of being capable of heroism is being fed and rested. That you have to take care of yourself if you want to get anything done, and when the characters take care of themselves, it's never to the exclusion of others. Elrond and Beorn and so many others break bread with the companies, Farmer Maggot finds trespassers and once pleasantries are out of the way, he feeds them and gives them a ride and gives them a snack for the road (which is also part of a big in-joke, because the work contains multitudes).

I keep thinking of the bit near the end of the Hobbit, where Bilbo's part in the company becomes perhaps the most crucial it's been because he wants to go home. He wants to sleep in his warm, dry, soft bed, and he wants to eat food that wasn't designed to stay 'edible' for months on end, and he wants a goddamn cup of tea!

And over and over I think about him turning over the Arkenstone, which he himself coveted, and he says, out loud, without subtext, that Thorin will sit on his pile of gold and starve to death if nothing changes.

Bilbo's ability to be surrounded by fabulous treasure, appreciate it, and then consciously decide that having basic creature comforts and his needs met are better than the potential-but-not-yet-extent wealth of mountains of gold. Bilbo is referenced in the Fellowship, at the beginning, as someone who often spends his money and gives gifts and enjoys good food, as hobbits are wont.

Hobbits are almost joke characters in the setting, in these epic tales, and that is their strength. The Hobbit is appropriately named, because the company would have been doomed multiple times over without Bilbo, even if he is embellishing his memoirs. Gandalf correctly identified that the company would need someone who could, with serious determination, say, "gold is great and all but it needs to be spent or it's worthless". He needs someone who, when faced with a cold tomb of treasure and a hearty meal, will choose the latter every time, even if there's some hesitation or puttering around with the treasures first.

Hell, Bilbo gave up The One Ring and he did it twice in the Fellowship alone - once at the birthday party, and then at Elrond's house. Yes, he did some dubious stuff to get it and when he had it, but the fact that he gave it up and managed to stick with that decision is honestly absolutely incredible when we see people like Gandalf, Galadriel, and more struggling to restrain themselves. Gandalf all but begs not to be offered it, because he does not consider himself strong enough to give it up, or at least not before causing immense harm (this is implied, anyhow; I'm listening to the radio play version so I need to go back and check the narration in the text later).

(Also, I think it was very important for Bilbo to have his Moment at the House of Elrond - because it scared Frodo. And I think that's what knocked Bilbo out of his fervor - looking into the face of his heir, ward, adopted child and seeing fear, and realizing he was the source of it, and the Ring was not worth that to him.

And Frodo had only twice worn the Ring til now - neither time willingly - and this is an excellent wake-up call. He sees his pleasant-if-odd guardian turn into something horrifying and alien, a monster that covets the trinket in his hand, and he knows now exactly how that happened.)

The Hobbits are such wonderful protagonists particularly because they're about as far from classic epic heroes as you can get. Thorin and Aragorn are having Heroic Returning King stories happening one step to the left of our focal characters, who are preoccupied with whether they'll be able to eat tonight. The Hobbits regularly lend both levity and pragmatism to the party, and there's something very funny about the amount of "I'll do it, you can't stop me from doing it, but I am going to complain the whole time" that I've seen come up in the Fellowship specifically, though it was definitely there in the Hobbit.

[welcometoteyvat]

jing yuan and yanqing are giving zhongli and xiao if the latter’s canon relationship was Actually fanon’s made up father figure/adopted child dynamic

[jerseyartblog]

A Princess contains multitudes...

;) I am a little obsessed with Slay the Princess so some quick, vibey fanart! I watched a few Let's Plays for now (that working adult life really has cut into my ability to play after work ;'D )but as soon as I have some free time I cannot wait to dive into it myself !

Also, bonus art under the cut because I haven't been HOOKED on a game in so long and STP is really vibing well with me

xD Trying to think what really hooked me. Something something about the nature of a repeated and retold and remixed fairy tales... LOVE warped and twisted and turned and misunderstood and just the way we keep branching and going over and repeating over and over -- LOVEEEE all this and the team at Black Tabby Games really made something special!

[writingwithcolor]

Avoiding the white savior of the kingdom

@ceo-of-angst asked:

Okay so I'm writing a fantasy series. There's two main kingdoms though there is a third but that one doesn't have to do anything with this ask. Both of them are likely as big as a continent each so there are different climates everywhere, therefore there's a lot of diversity even within one country. The issues mostly is between the two kingdoms nationality wise, as there's a war. The prince of one of the kingdoms kills his older brother to gain the throne. This is where the issue starts. They have a younger (half)sister who ends up leading a revolution bc of her brother's bad rule (famine, war, dictatorship and incantation or sentence to fight to the death in war to anyone who doesn't obbey the government etc), she's white, she's helped by my main cast who are all poc (one of them also from nobility) from the other kingdom and I don't want to accidently make it a white savior She's not my main character though if anything we only see into her pov bc of a difference between kingdoms in book 2. Most of the pov is on my main cast so I don't know how this could pay out.

Add diversity to the kingdom

There is a simple solution: don’t make one kingdom all-white or all-BIPOC. Add in diversity and mixed race. You seem to already be doing that, and it’s not an issue of race but rather tyranny. White saviorism is when only a white character can solve a problem for BIPOC and they’re seen as the hero. If it’s a team effort, where your protagonist is fallible but well-intentioned, you should be fine. -Jaya

Questions to ask yourself

This critique got levied at Tamora Pierce’s Trickster series, and it’s a pretty valid critique of the books—every time you have a white person as a figurehead of an otherwise-diverse movement, you’re going to start getting into why this white person, and why then?

It’s especially salient if you have the person come into an already-established rebellion movement. Is her involvement the thing that gets the privilege necessary to make the movement valid? What about her makes her the ideal top person in the organization?

Why is she white?

My first question is: why is she white? Is it related to colorism and classism? If yes, then why are you automatically making the leading group white if there’s so much diversity and so many other groups can trend extremely pale?

Why are the kingdoms so big?

My second question is: why are the kingdoms so big? It’s actually frighteningly hard to run a continent-sized country. If you’re attempting to make these single groups so big simply for ease of worldbuilding, and for diversity’s sake, know that a country does not have to be large to contain a multitude of groups. You are allowed to have political rivalry in a small area and still maintain diversity within it.

How much privilege is she willing to give up?

My third question is: how much privilege is she willing to give up? Is she trying to take the throne for herself, or is she trying to destroy all of the structures that gave her status in the first place? Because that question will determine how willing the PoC around her are going to be. Why would they support a ruler if they’ve been subjugated by that family, with no real promise she’s going to be any different once she gets in power?

On the flipside, why would she be willing to give up any of her privilege in the name of removing her brother from the throne, and what stops her from going off the deep end once she has the ability to control others?

It’s likely doable to make this situation read as less of a white saviour, but in order to do that you’ll likely need to wask yourself a lot of hard questions about your motives and the character arc you want to have with her.

People may see a white savior, regardless

And you’ll also have to ask yourself if you’ll be comfortable with never really being able to avoid some people calling this a white saviour plot. Even if you do “everything right” and follow every bit of advice you can, there’s always going to be some people who aren’t too thrilled that the person saving everyone is white.

So examine your motives, really nail down what you’re trying to show with this, and come to terms with not making everyone happy no matter what you do.

~Mod Lesya

[tf2occontest]

Reynold “Roy” Aiken - The Rascal VS The Barman (Thomas Armstrong)

(Full matchup list here)

Alright team, here's a recap: This is a contest to determine who amongst you will take the top of the leaderboards and be hired at TFI! Simply put, whoever gets the most votes gets to move on, and whoever doesn't... Well. They'll be put down swiftly and cleanly. :}

So, mann your stations, because here are your next contestants! Vote for your favorite mercenary who you want to win the TF2 OC Contest! - P

OC INFO UNDER THE CUT!

We highly encourage you to take a peek to make your decision!

Reynold “Roy” Aiken - The Rascal

@thenumberonerascal

Image credit: jestersmassacre

Rascal is a 12 year old boy who wandered onto RED teams base years ago- and surprisingly, hasn’t run away from all of the blood and fighting yet. In fact, he really loves it! The Rascal doesn’t bring a lot to battle- a few guns and a slingshot- but he still wants to be useful and prove he belongs with the mercenaries(who he chooses to call his family- not that he’ll ever tell them that).

He uses his slingshot to throw things to his teammates and at the opponents- water balloons full of gasoline, health packs, bonk- you name it. He’s only the slightest bit slower than Scout, and has the lowest HP of the group.

He’s cocky, easy to anger, a bit too confident in his abilities- a mini Scout, if you may (who he thinks is the coolest guy ever). He’s always excited to jump into battle, distract and irritate the other team, and prove that he’s just as strong as everyone else.

Maybe if he wins, The Administrator will think about paying him for his fighting!

The Barman (Thomas Armstrong)

@trypo-p

Image credit: @/trypo-p

Born and raised in Stratford, Ontario, Barman is an affable gentleman who specializes in the art of mixology. Among the mercenaries, Barman is relatively tame in comparison; he gets along with everyone and is seen as an almost "parental" figure to most of the team. Whether it be telling old stories of his life back in Canada, or smacking Scout on the back of his neck for forgetting his manners, he has his ways of making the team remember that he's their elder.

Most of the man's time is spent in his makeshift bar in the team's base, or in his own room. That, of which, contains a multitude of model train sets. Sadly Barman was unable to live his dream of becoming a train conductor, but he can still lose himself in the fantasy when he's alone in his room with his models.

When he's in his bar, however, he gets to have casual conversation among his teammates. During his time working for the team he had become quite friendly with Demoman and Spy, often spending nights with them at the bar after a long battle. He'd listen to everyones worries, give them advice, then laugh the rest of the night away to lighten up the mood.

[rocks-in-my-vodka]

lestat is the most glorious morally grey character in modern media rn and here’s why :

he is literally the vampire ever.like ever. every mythical creature, when stripped of its feathers and stage makeup (as in exaggerated monstrous behaviour to incite fear in humans as a form of enjoyment or just to create lore) at its heart reveals a mirror to humanity’s worst qualities. it’s rotten humanity’s most bent out of shape behaviours given a fantastic name, put in the body of folklore passed down centuries, ideas that we as people still cannot escape, we are just as fascinated by vampires and zombies and werewolves now as we were 500 years ago and it’s truly because ( and i’ll talk abt vampires here specifically) vampires are everything a normal human would like to be but as all things it can only be achieved by a complete perversion of our “moral ideals”, a rejection of morality and humanity. and lestat is a diva at playing this part

like think abt it. you’re a vampire. you will never die, you will be young and youthful, you will have strength beyond belief, you will have the ability to create (fire) from nothing, super speed, flying, all fantastic things humans themselves work tirelessly to achieve. but at the cost of what? you must sustain yourself on the blood of others, thus, you must consider your own self more deserving to live than the mortals, you must decide daily that you are more important, you matter infinitely more, that the people who were once your brethren are now simple prey, there for you to literally drain the life out of, who else can make this choice of whose life matters more than others’, other than some kind of a god? everything around you will change, you will remain, the eternal witness, the immortal hunter, a living juxtaposition of a savage creature who hunts like an animal for blood and at the same time a narcissist who thinks itself above mortals. and lestat is exactly this. he is a walking contradiction and yet you will believe everything he claims because it is all true, because he has a thousand lifetimes stored in him, because these creatures have worn a hundred skins and a million faces, at what point do you forget where your skin begins and your mask ends? where lestat the young actor began and lestat the devastated, angry, jealous lover ended?

and yet everything he says is true. when he tells you he would murder you in cold blood while you sleep, it’s true, when he tells you he loves you more than anything in the world, it’s true. he contains multitudes, contradictions get neutralised inside him like nebulas colliding. as a vampire, you get to do the one thing that, as a mortal, eats you alive from the moment you are born, and that is : meet your maker. when you’re born as a human, you can only imagine your maker, hear stories, believe lies, but never see for yourself, as a vampire, in your second life, in your living death, you can know your maker, your master, your maitre. so when you look lestat in the eyes, in his cold glassy undead vicious eyes, you realise he is your god. and if this god said to you he would burn you in pain and misery forever for not believing in his love, you believe him, when he says he will lead you into glorious heaven like the lord shepherd you believe him, because you know he will. he knows only killing, only savagery, only the kind of love that is realised in complete bodily physicality, viciously, unforgivingly, through pain and death, not a love that is simply felt but never materialised. when he says he will kill you if you disobey him, you know he will, when he says he stitched your initials into his chest pocket so your name cradles his heart, you know he did. he is a boy, a monster, a puppy, a wolf, a savage manipulative liar and a killer, and the eternal lover, betrayed and frozen in time and memory, his memory too a monster

[nalyra-dreaming]

Personally I don't think louis meant something else with the terrible thing once other than "killing" lestat, cause he is shown to be regretful of that at times (and louis can feel guilt about killing him and not properly killing him and thus feel also guilty about claudia dying. Louis' ability to feel guilt contains multitudes). And as for 2x08 I never thought they made lestats skin look different,it's the lighting, louis skin also looks more warm and glistening. For me the only clue we have that the tower scene needs to be revisited is that it simply makes no sense otherwise? Like for real you cannot convince me louis burned down the entire coven for the murder of Claudia but let lestat live fine and dandy in order to run off with armand of all people like bfr. It does make sense that louis knows that he cannot overpower lestat but both him and armand could. For me the only way to save it would be to have both louis and armand damage lestat (burn and shove from the tower to fall) and then leaving him there. That leaves wiggle room in the sense that they would not be 100% sure if lestat survived and in what state.

It's all a bit messy but for me, having louis let lestat go with a slap on the wrist ( "pale reflection of me" cmon) after thinking he brutally murdered your daughter is a no and I don't care what rolin says, it's simply not enough and cheapens claudias death.

Thanks for reading!!

:) It is a bit of a mess still, absolutely - it is a puzzle with a lot of missing pieces.

As per the skin - *shrugs* - it looks like that to me, especially compared to the teaser. And there is also the comment from Rolin that you "cannot burn him twice", which I bet will come into play still.

We will have to wait and see how they (choose to) resolve it.

But yes, Louis definitely was not happy about murder night, and felt remorse - that at least should be crystal clear by now.

I mean....

[divine-misfortune]

Mushy May, day 4. Wound tending/first aid.

Rating: T

Pairing: Alpha/Omega

Words: 1,399

Summary: Omega gets hurt and simply shatters under the weight of his guilt. Alpha puts the pieces back together.

Contains: Vague descriptions of injuries, talk of feral water ghouls (ie: Delta), lot of hurt before the comfort. Mushy May? More like misery may- (i'm sorry)

Once again many thank you's to @forlorn-crows for all of this <333

He was shaking. 

Alpha swallowed thickly as he registered that Omega, who moved with a surgeon's precision in every aspect of life, Omega the sturdiest most reliable thing the unholy father ever crafted, was undeniably shaking. 

His hands trembled as he stumbled for the edge of the sink, knocking a few sterilized tools from the counter beside it onto the red splattered tile as he caught himself. Alpha's ears pinned back. Without all the hissing and growling, with the chaos forcefully subdued by the younger quintessence ghoul’s quick thinking, all Alpha could hear was his mate's unsteady breathing. 

The sound of the faucet being turned on broke him from his stupor, driving Alpha from where he'd been rooted with ice creeping into his veins. Lead settled in his belly, a weighted sort of dread as he flocked to Omega's side. He choked on the scent of copper and gunsmoke as he grabbed for Omega's wrists, a desperate attempt to ground him. Try to bring recognition to his eyes. Omega almost jerked away from him and he instinctively held tighter. Never wanting to let him slip away in this blind panic, he'd get lost in it. Alpha did his best to hush him, he was never one for comforting or soothing. People don't often seek out fire to ease the pain, but it was good for cauterizing the wound. 

“Hey, hey, Megs it's me-” Alpha softened his voice to the best of his ability, “look at me.” 

It took a moment but those pinprick pupils found him after bouncing to a few nonspecific points, and Omega let out a shuddered breath. 

“Did you-?” he began, voice grim. Alpha felt his stomach sink like it might retreat back to the very pits he crawled out of. 

“No. No, your kid just put him out for a bit till we figure out a better solution.” Relief and worry fought for a place in his expression. Omega tried to look over Alpha’s shoulder but he abandoned the idea the second he saw the tattered curtain. 

“This wasn't supposed to happen, the transition was supposed to stop it” his eyes dropped, staring at the multitude of gouges raked down his forearms. The reality of failure dawning on him. “We put him through hell, and we still lost Delta.” 

“I….” Alpha followed his gaze down to the cuts on his arms and grimaced, only now registering the blood seeping through his fingers and down his own wrists. “Fuck…C'mon, I don't need you bleeding out,” he gently tugged him away from the sink and towards the office at the back of the infirmary. 

Omega dropped heavily into the chair behind the desk the second he got close to it, fully sagging into his seat. He looked tired, like this had taken everything he had left. Maybe it had. 

The last few months had seemed somewhat hopeful. Short lived relief as Delta seemed to settle into himself, into his new element. There had been a shared anxiety over the transition to begin with, it had never been done before - the idea of an element like water, entirely untamed, being reshaped to fit the ever changing mold of something as elusive as quintessence seemed so outside the realm of possibility. The solution really had been too good to be true, there was no saving a water ghoul from their element or the fate that they were doomed to. Perhaps Omega should have seen it coming, should have sensed the fraying threads in Delta's very being, and judging by the resignation creating harsh lines on his face Omega accepted his part in Delta’s rapidly deteriorating humanity. 

Alpha watched his chin sink to his chest, eyes fixing somewhere far away, seemingly unbothered by his injuries or just too numb to care. He wanted to grab him by those broad, capable shoulders and shake him. Shake the sense back into him. Rattle the guilt out of him like spare change from a piggy bank. 

But he clenched his fists at his sides and went to collect the things he needed. Alpha was no medic by any means but he could certainly clean and dress a wound, Omega had taught him well through the years and various injuries he'd collected - for a time Omega must have thought he was getting hurt like that on purpose to have an excuse to visit the infirmary. His time in the medical wing was informative at least, he knew the various cabinets and drawers a bit too well. 

Rags, hot water, gauze pads, and bandages in hand Alpha returned to Omega to find the quintessence ghoul had not moved an inch. Even the few strands of hair falling over his face hadn't shifted. 

The position felt backwards. Alpha knelt before him while Omega sat silently, avoiding eye contact out of shame. He did not move with confidence like the quintessence ghoul would have. Hesitant and cautious as he moved to dab a wet rag at the fine imprint of teeth. Omega nearly jerked from his grip but Alpha's tail swatted at him lightly, pulling his hand back towards him. Delta had a nasty bite, two rows of jagged needle like teeth, flinching was certainly understandable. 

“He really got you good, huh…” Alpha mumbled, feeling a tendon in Omega's hand twitch in a sort of agreement. No change in his face. “Omega,” he sighed, barely looking up. “You can't tear yourself apart over him, he knew the risk when he pursued the transition.” 

Not a word. 

“This isn't your fault. You couldn't have predicted this.” He offered with an alarming sincerity, a voice too gentle to belong to someone like him. “You did everything you could, but you can't save everyone.” 

His fingers curled, a fist in his lap suddenly. Alpha feared those claws would dislodge the blood clot and he'd start bleeding everywhere again but Omega didn't seem bothered by the thought. 

“Why can't i?!” The words spilled out of him soaked in desperation, face screwing up, eyes shut. “What good am I as a healer if I can't save them?” His voice broke, silently pleading for an answer to ease his guilt. 

Dropping the red stained rag to the floor with a wet slapping sound, Alpha reached for his face instead. Needed to touch him, skin to skin, he couldn't let Omega fall much further lest he lose him entirely. This was the only lifeline he knew how to provide. 

The tears escaped at the first touch, and Alpha wanted to engulf him entirely. Shroud him in a warm safety where the cold cruel reality couldn't tear into his mate any further, but all he could do was slip his arms around his middle and drag Omega's face into his shoulder. The position was awkward at best, what with Omega in the chair and him just kneeling on the floor, but they still found a way to fit together. They always did. 

Clutching the back of his shirt, Omega's shoulders shook. A muted sob that could have easily torn Alpha's hardened heart entirely in two. 

“You couldn't save him but you gave him more time,” Alpha held him tighter, like the truth might be squeezed into him. “You did more for him than any of us could.” 

“He'd have never forgiven me.” He mumbled, cheek pressing close to Alpha’s steady pulse. 

“He would have never thought you needed forgiveness.” He corrected and laid his palm flat to the nape of his neck, idly scratching at the overgrown whispy hairs. “Delta was nothing but grateful to you.” 

Against his neck he felt Omega open his mouth to argue but the words didn't come. He didn't have the energy to let them tumble out, wilting into the fire ghoul's embrace helplessly. Alpha knew his knees would ache, he'd probably walk with a faint limp for the next day or two from the unforgiving tile against his bone, but he didn't dare to move. The bruises were nothing compared to the proverbial beating Omega had given himself, he could endure it. Alpha could endure it all if only to bring Omega peace of mind. 

So he remained, a light in the dark, coaxing Omega back from the places none of them could follow. Warm and solid, something for his lover to latch onto. Alpha would have stayed perfectly in place for centuries if that was what Omega needed. 

[lionheartapothecaryx]

BIBLIOMANCY: THE PSALMS 📖🔮🕯️


During the many centuries of American history, Black African Americans had contact with various different religions and ethnic cultures ie; multiple Indigenous Tribes, Jews, Appalachians, Dutch, Swedes, Caribbeans, Haitian Kreyols and many more, through the Chattel Transatlantic Trade an land migration. These pivotal interactions are introduced the assimilation of many ritual practices. Hoodoo is a multiculturally mixed practice, with many nuances and intersections. It reflects the attitude and practices of many different generations, cultivated, passed down and preserved. While purists believe in keeping Hoodoo strictly traditional, the realist and preservationists, see Hoodoo as a constantly evolving and cunning art form, always adaptable to the times. Throughout the 1600 - 1900s, multiple different denominations of the Abrahamic faiths were wide spread through the United States influencing Black American folk magic and way of life. 
Bibliomancy was already a common folk practice at and slowly making into the consciousness of Black American folk Magick. 

The first book printed in North America to contain the psalms was The Bay Psalm Book, published in 1640 in Cambridge, Massachusetts by Minister an Planation Owner, Joseph Glover, who was well known for being the pioneer of printing in the English colonies and was one of the co-founders of Harvard University. Without sufficient historical evidence we can only speculate that this is the it’s one possible origins of the usage of the psalms in Black American Folk Magick. Glover was a Rector aka a parish priest for the Church of England and was decently educated. It is highly likely during his studies in England he had access to Jewish Psalm Prayer Books which inspired him to publish one of his own, when he came to America. There were also a small afro-jewish populations and various intersectional social connections with the black community, with the Jewish, Catholic and other various Christian religious denominations that were also clear influences.


The Church was a place of indoctrination but also social relief, community and emotional escapism for Black Americans during these times. Throughout the centuries the Indoctrination of the Church became the only source of solace and safety for Black American mental health & society during ever shifty and dangerous social climates. Deeply imbedding itself into consciousness of the black community, subconsciously and consciously, which we can still see in modern times. 
As the ability to read and write increased within the black community, in addition to the growth of printing more books access to reading the Bible and the Psalms became easier and easier. Now the Psalms were seen as a powerful book of spells in African American folk magick, with a multitude of different uses. Psalms could be scratched in the mud, written on doorways, or just simply spoken or prayed over folks, tools, plant allies, talismans, mojo bags, roots, other items, water, candles and more. The intent could be love, justice, abundance, peace and even hexing. Eventually, this belief trickled down to usage of other verses, from other Bible, an influenced African American communities, all over the country. Each community like their own little tribes, some with similar or different practices and rituals, regionally. 
In practice, The power of the psalms was unmatched, people swore by it by its success rate and still do to this day, which is why the practice has stuck in modern times.

The Psalms were a vehicle of rejuvenation and life, these scriptures were considered living words of power. I’ll go into the sacred mythos behind that, for members of my Patreon, later on this month.


For some Black Americans it’s easy to overlook and even discard the power of bibliomancy especially when they have deep religious trauma when it comes to any Abrahamic faith (Baptist, Catholic, Christian, Cogic etc) which is understandable. These feelings are valid & practicing Hoodoo, means understanding the many intricate nuances of the intersection and history of this folk culture. Others also see the value in Bibliomancy and continue this ancestral practice in modern times, knowing two things can be true at once. There is a great deal of duality in Hoodoo, which is something many of us have come to accept and honor at the same time. Respecting this balance demands a deep sense of self and cultural respect, a discerning eye and great deal of empathy, whether practitioners like it or not.

Using the Psalms is a powerfully easy way to reconnect and heal with ancestral Black American practices and medicine. It’s not a requirement of course, but it’s fun to encourage other black Americans to practice and discover all of its hidden powers. Many African folk practices, were hidden out of survival, requiring a level of covert cunning. Bibliomancy was a clever way hide in plain sight without attracting too much attention. Think of our ancestors as secret agents of truth, justice with a covert strategic mentality that still has important place in modern times. Some magick requires a keen mind, good sense, without calling any attention to itself, teaching us the practice of self control and discipline. This is why the practice of bibliomancy is important, allowing you to tap into this energy and honor your ancestors and yourself.

Examples of Bibliomancy


Psalms 54 - Help In Times Of Need. Mastering Negative Thoughts, Revenge Against Enemies. 
Psalms 60 - Put The Past Behind You. 
Psalms 41 - Help With Money Troubles 
Psalms 23 - Protection, Abundance, Stability & Healing

HAPPY HOODOO HERITAGE MONTH ✨

🕯️🕯️🕯️

[quixoticall]

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

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

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

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

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

wc: 11.2K

MASTERLIST🎸

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

a. It would wreak havoc on the band.

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

But then… you had heard what Argyle had said.

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean by that?”

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

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

“He told me, duh.”

“Have you told anyone else this?”

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

***

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

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

“Why?” he presses.

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

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

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

“Why me? Why not Harrington?”

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

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

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

“Now?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So wet,” he murmured, “so pretty.”

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

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

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

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

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

“No one can know,” you insists.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“See you later, Eds.”

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

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is like the same bed, dude.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Just like that, please keep going.”

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

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

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

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

It would be impolite to leave him hanging.

***

EDDIE: Not that I could complain about our arrangement.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The brief touch shoots electricity through you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” he says, impishly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort at the way he saw right through you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you watch him go.

***

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

***

The first half of the interview went well enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You ignore how pointed that feels and smile in response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

NANCY: There was a second part to the game.   

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

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

***

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

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

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

“Whys that?” The host asked wolfishly.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Showing me what, exactly?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(He really was.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That sucks, I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, yeah.” “Definitely.”

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Steve don’t,” you plea softly.

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

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

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

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

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

“Just not you,” he says devastated.

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

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

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

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

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

PLAY NEXT TRACK🎤

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

[n1ghtwr1ter]

This is how it ends:

Gideon is going to take Alecto’s place as the soul of the Earth, because Alecto is long-dead and you can’t go home again. This will not involve her being Gideon anymore, mind you - the soul of a planet isn’t anything like a human being, because it is so large and contains so many multitudes. It contains concepts, like love and hate and forgiveness and mercy. It contains concepts like the freedom of the winds to blow, the mercy of the rains to soak the earth, the forgiveness of spring after a long and devastating winter. All of these, we have seen, Gideon also contains - and so the Earth will be Gideon, after a fashion. Hell, I suspect that the new citizens of Earth might even *name* it Gideon.

Gideon will be big and bright, full of promise and purpose. She will love the people who walk upon her ground, who ply her waters, who till her soil and coax new life from bare dirt. She will be a wonderful place to live - a new paradise, even, if you’re from the dead and dying Houses or the desperately struggling exoplanets. And in all the ways that matter, she will be Gideon.

And in all the ways that don’t matter, she won’t be Gideon anymore. They’re little ways, ways that will only matter to a very few, who will likely tell themselves that this is a good ending, this is the best thing for her, she always wanted freedom and what’s freer than being an entire planet? You can’t lock up a planet anywhere. They will tell themselves not to stand at her grave and weep. She isn’t there; she’s everywhere.

But you can’t kiss a planet. You can’t hold a planet. You can feel the whisper of the breeze through your hair, but it will never be her breath ghosting across your skin. You can feel the touch of the water all around you as you wade into the sea, but it will never be her arms embracing you. You tell yourself that you have no right to her, never did - especially not after how you treated her, especially not after what she did for you and, eventually, did for everyone - but you can’t help it: you miss her. It’s Gideon, and she belongs to everyone - but you miss your Gideon. And she is gone. You will never see her again.

It’s a very lovely and poetic ending and it’ll be a fitting end for the series but I hate it with every fiber of my being because god fucking dammit, those two kids deserved to be able to have their own lives, to learn how to be human beings together, to learn haltingly and with plenty of mess how to love each other in ways that did not rend or scourge. But I truly don’t think they will.

I know, I know, I’m a pessimist, what’s the evidence, etc.

- all of the parallels being established between Gideon and Alecto:

“The resting place of Harrowhark’s one true love,” how it’s Gideon’s sword now lying there when Harrow enters the tomb

The golden eyes

The healing abilities

The forgiveness

The love

The urge to be Harrow’s cavalier, and John’s

The anger

But also, I’m pretty sure Tamsyn said somewhere that all of the series is just cover for one simple, stupid joke. And what’s simpler and stupider than

I’m sure there’s a lot more evidence that I can’t remember just now - I’ll add it onto this post later like my little conspiracy board. I just can’t be arsed to look it up right now because thinking about it makes me want to die. But I’ve been very reluctantly working on this theory for months now and nothing I’ve seen has convinced me I’m wrong.

[ghost-run-free]

i am nothing

but an observer. i see what's being posted on here under this tag and while i am a hopeful and optimistic person, i am more inclined to dismiss these blind items. that is, by no means am i completely dismissing the wonderful relationship these two have managed to create while filming Queer.

i get a headache just thinking about the myriad of questions i have surrounding actors. the relationship that these very real people have on set is one that is so incredibly unique and one that has an impending, scheduled time limit. it has always been a subject of particular interest, personally. recently i've been listening to clairo's newest album, Charm, and how in the song 'sexy to someone' she sang about not getting a part for a movie or not getting the job for a tv show. this gave me sort of a weird (made up) context for the album. basically, i listened to the album from the perspective of a struggling actor. the song pier 4 in particular, really made me ponder about actors' relationships on set (i understand the dangers of going too deep into that, re: the harmful rumors that have ruined relationships between actors for centuries being the very result of mere speculations. but i still can't help looking at it from a distance and thinking... they're people at the end of the day. they contain multitudes just like me and as complex as their emotions can be, they're only somewhat a variation of my own. i can't help but wanting to humanize them even more and to find their flaws) as i feel the lyrics to this song paints a perfect picture of it.

'What's the cost of it, of being loved?'

'Where's your line, when do you draw? When close is not close enough'

'Where's the fun in it? And now I'm too tough. From Close being just too much'

i don't know. i might just be talking out of my ass.

to circle back to these two, i find their relationship so wonderful. as i observe them further, i even feel like the immense closeness we see between daniel and drew goes past the need of there being any speculations or blind items.

i love how daniel always used the word 'kind' to describe drew in interviews. 'a kind, wonderful human being' he once said. 'i liked drew the moment i met him' and 'a beautiful actor to work with'. tsk tsk tsk, actors... actors... it's also them saying that they practiced their choreography for 6 straight weeks, and by the time they're on set to film the sex scenes, they're already 'very familiar with each other's smells and the feel of each other's skin', in luca's own words. it's a marvel, really. 'i've never moved my body in that way before' drew said in one interview, cue daniel looking at the camera knowingly and laughing cheekily. i love being able to witness how great these two got along despite the 25 years gap between them. it was never even mentioned. instead they talked about how 'we shared some strange and funny stories with each other' that aren't allowed to be shared in front of the camera. smh. drew saying that daniel is punk and counterculture is a true testament that he really got to know that man. daniel endlessly bullying and teasing drew's lack of public speaking abilities and zero knack for answering questions in general... the ENDLESS stories of them laughing and (basically) having the time of their lives shooting the sex scenes. drew saying that daniel 'really kept him going' on set and he likely 'would have exploded' if it weren't for daniel keeping things moving and holding the fort strong enough for the both of them. god. the dynamic in their relationship is truly so beautiful (and complex). and as someone who's been obsessed with actors and relationship between actors all their life, theirs was a special one to observe. i think that's due to their unapologetic attitude towards showing how much they enjoy each other's company (and existence). (and how in love they truly are with each other)

anyway that's my rant. i love actors. i love drewniel.

[dailycharacteroption]

Plague Eater (Spiritualist Archetype)

(art by Lyno3ghe on DeviantArt)

Few things are more tragic and traumatic than mass death. It’s the sort of thing that we evoke in our horror fiction as the cause of many surges of undead rising. Whole villages populated by the walking dead living out a mockery of their former lives until the living dare intrude upon them, or amalgamated spirits fused together into a howling knot of trauma.

However, not every tragedy like this need to beget more tragedies, and such is the case with today’s subject: the Plague Eater.

The land of Iobaria is nearly not a nation at all by most definitions, not anymore, that is. The nation is mostly abandoned after centuries of plagues and periods of regrowth, leaving ruins dotting the landscape where they haven’t been reclaimed by the forest.

With those disease come hordes of unquiet spirits that have banded together, but instead of becoming some manner of undead horror, these groups decided to instead bind with a survivor or perhaps a sympathetic soul, swearing to protect them not only from physical harm, but also the same sort of diseases they perished by.

In this way a plague eater is a spiritualist that has not one phantom, but many, though they still can only access one at a time, switching out for a different one each day if they so wish.

Followed by such a horde, these mystics may struggle with them, but there is no denying their versatility.

These spiritualists literally contain multitudes, and when they rest they can bring up one of these spirits to serves as their phantom, letting them bring new sets of emotions to the front. However, this does weaken their overall bond, making their phantoms slightly weaker than others. Additionally, the phantoms are more focused on protecting the spiritualist from disease than they are offering their insight. As such, no matter what spirit is currently in front, they always grant protection against disease while within the spiritualist, while also granting a bonus to a single skill that changes every time the plague eater changes the phantom.

At first, their protection against disease is only when within the head of their master, but later on, their manifested ectoplasmic form helps ward them while they are nearby.

Naturally, these mages also learn to fight against disease themselves, starting with a simple spell that suppresses the worst of symptoms and helps bolster recovery and the immune system.

However, they can also turn this power against foes to mark them with the painful outward signs of the plague that slew their spirits, though not actually infect them with the disease.

As they grow more powerful, they can magically cure diseases with a touch as well.

They also continue to gain the benefits of their phantom’s guidance and protection even once they manifest as well.

Eventually, they become completely immune to disease, allowing their manifested phantom to begin spreading this protection to others nearby.

Finally, powerful plague eaters can not only cure diseases, but pull the infection out of someone magically and inflict it on an enemy with a touch, should they be so cruel.

The protection this archetype grants against disease may be quite useful in some campaigns, but not so much in others. However, the ability to trade out your phantom’s focus from day to day with only one loss in the companion’s level can make for a very versatile spiritualist if you can predict the sort of foes you’ll be going up against each day. I recommend taking a few divination spells for exactly that reason, though the rest of your build is probably going to be more generalized in order to accommodate the differences in play style each emotional foci brings with it.

This archetype is interesting, because if I’m not mistaken, it is the only one that lets a spiritualist change their phantom’s emotional foci without story reasons of them being released and them getting a new one. With that in mind, I think there’s plenty of room to create homebrew variants of this archetype that replace the disease-related abilities with others, perhaps tied to some other cause of mass death, for example.

When the superstitious shogunate discovered the location of Biiyon Village, he sent his armies to slaughter the kitsune living there. The defenders fought valiantly, but could not stand before them, and only those that fled into the forest survived. Now, one of those survivors has grown into a beautiful young woman, and she plans to tear down the shogun, with the entire deceased population of her home at her side.

The party was investigating a ruin when they discover an auger velstrac fleeing as if the horrible ball of meat and iron’s life depended on it. Giving chase is a fierce-looking woman and a shadow of blurred shapes and faces. Whatever the explanation, not just anyone can make a velstrac flee.

The Dead City of Alklazzen was devastated by illness, overtaken so thoroughly that there wasn’t even time to make mass graves for the majority of the populace. Most rose again as walking dead or spirits, and many have devolved into monstrosity. However, there is a community of spirits that have bonded together, waiting for something to latch onto to regain purpose.

[wishcamper]

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

According to Aristotle, the tragic hero must:

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

Be flawed

Suffer a reversal of fortune.

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

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

[ferpykins]

just some thoughts i wroted down bc i was thinking abt my niece who is unfortunately no longer with us and bc her father was a dipshit who did not father her and i think he needs a fucking lesson in being a human being (he is a boot boy (he acts like he is 14 (HE IS AT LEAST 40)))

To learn is to love

To learn is to love

We learn not only for ourselves, but for those around us

We learn to improve, we learn to love

We learn for those we love

We learn all of what each of us needs

And do everything in our power to learn how to achieve those needs best

Not for ourselves

But because we love

We learn what we do because of our love of our minds

We learn to create because we love to bring ideas into the world

We create towards improving the lives of ourselves and others

We learn to love because we create for each other

We take the extra step to know more because of our love

If not of the knowledge of the world

But perhaps for the love of each other

People say all we have on this earth is time, but to narrow your scope of what is and isn’t in our grasp of power

And forget that love is just as fleeting yet harnessable

We take time for each other

For the love we provide to one another

Yet that love can easily slip our hands

Just as time can when in the midst of it all

To go without knowledge is to go against loving

Against creating

We take the time to learn how to love each other best

To create a better future with them

For more time with them

To love them

Within the amount of time we still have

With and without them

What we learn for each other does not go to waste

What we learn from each other is as concrete as the love we have for each other

Just as you learned to make their life better

You can apply that to another love

In another time

To love is appreciate

The appreciation in a dog’s eyes when you feed it

The appreciation in a stray cat’s purrs when you pet it

The appreciation in a disabled person’s thank you when you hold the door

The appreciation you give a stranger that gives you a hand

The appreciation you give your parents for the meal

The appreciation you give yourself for giving yourself the time you needed

To appreciate is to take the time to think about how much this person means to you

To love is to take the time to learn what this person needs from you

Just as they learn to know what to give you in return

Even if it isn’t equal

Neither are the situations in which we are born from

The appreciation will always be equal

As long as the love is equal

As long as we learn for our loves

As long as we learn from our loves

While we still have the time

The multitudes that people contain often fills books

All of the things they learn

All of the things they love

All of the time they spent with those abilities of theirs

So we must do our parts to ensure the time one can spend learning and loving

Is as long as possible

So we can never stop learning and loving

From them.

For them.

For Daphne