#if he was surrounded by people who hated him for over a decade like mans was IN TEARS | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fastcardotmp3 · 1 year

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a steddie "they reconnect after years apart" journey except they never got all that close post-Vecna to begin with. Like they spend a week in hell together, develop the sort of respect you have for someone when you have to work together to save the world, but it doesn't ever get much bigger than that.

They're just two guys who stumbled into each other's lives on circumstance alone and then spend the next decade seeing each other precisely once a year at the single shared holiday they both spend with the party.

New Years.

Eddie always spends Thanksgiving with Wayne and Steve is with Robin every 4th of July (running off and doing their own thing in a tradition everyone knows not to ask about) so the only time both of them end up at the Hopper-Byers residence every year is in that final countdown towards something new.

and they're not enemies and they're not-not friends either, but it's like that friend of your cousin who shows up to the party and you'll chat and make polite conversation and roll your eyes when they say something a bit out of bounds for two people who don't know each other all that well except.

Well, except, when you do that every year it becomes routine. When you do it every year it becomes, I know I'm not gonna have to continue this conversation in the morning so fuck it I'll be honest with you. When you do it every year, on the tipsiest night of the year, surrounded by people you trust in an environment that feels intrinsically safe it becomes--

"Did you quit your shitty job yet or are you still being a pussy about it?"

and it becomes--

"you're not still dating that same jerk as last year, right?"

and it becomes--

"wait, you hate playing Christmas music, why would you let someone talk you into that? Next time call me and I'll knock some sense into your dense skull"

and it becomes--

"I mean obviously a friends with benefits thing wouldn't work out, Steve, you're a serial monogamist"

and it becomes--

"Hey, it's good to see you again, man"

and it becomes--

"I missed your stupid hair."

and it becomes--

"I missed your drunk fucking rants."

and it becomes--

"I missed you."

Years pass, turning one into the next and it becomes I missed you I missed you I miss you.

Because they've been doing this long enough that they know each other, one night a year holding up the kitchen-counter-turned-bar and having their own little isolated conversation in the yellow glow of the only well-lit room in the house, and somewhere along the line they started knowing each other. Seeing each other. Understanding.

At some point it starts to ache, leaving that behind in the early hours of the morning and starting a new year all over again, counting down towards that final countdown when it all feels like it clicks into place. And later, at another point, they start to notice the ache.

They start to notice that they really are leaving something behind in the magic of that moment and it becomes a question of can this survive in the light of day?

It's 1995, about to tip over into 1996 when Eddie looks at Steve and doesn't see the guy pressed up against the wall of a boat shed, or the guy diving headfirst into a frigid lake so the rest of them wouldn't have to, or the guy walking away towards battle with something like uncertainty and something like hope both scrambling for purchase in his eyes.

It's 1995, about to be 1996 when Eddie looks at this guy from his past and realizes that just because he never knew him then doesn't mean he doesn't now, doesn't mean he's not allowed to get to know him now.

Eddie's not the guy who held that bottle to his throat anymore after all, not the guy who dove into that lake after him, who broke a promise and tried to be a hero. Ten years does a lot to a person and so when the Eddie of today looks at the Steve of today and says--

"I'm gonna kiss you at midnight this time, for the record."

--it doesn't feel like the ground is quaking, like anything has to shift to make space for the change that is Steve's slow smile around the lip of his glass in response.

They've been making space for ten years. They've been moving closer to each other a centimeter at a time in this well-lit kitchen, up against the counter-turned-bar.

"Well, if we're going on the record," Steve shrugs as a noise maker cuts through the warmth of their family's chattering throughout the house, "I know that already."

"Yeah?" Eddie's eyebrows shoot up, delight filling up his chest like the mystical hope of starting over. "How?"

"You get this look in your eye," Steve shrugs, "every time you plan on escalating."

Eddie chews on the inside of his cheek to keep from beaming too broadly, sets his glass on the sideboard and gives Steve a curious once-over.

"Yeah, that's the one," Steve laughs, this bright and full sound that it took probably three of those first New Years Eves for Eddie to earn, and it spurs him on.

It has always been becoming, the space between them, and it has always been becoming this, Eddie holding Steve's cheek assuredly with one confident hand and pressing their lips together in a simple, all-consuming, closed-mouth shout of a kiss.

"You didn't wait until midnight," Steve breathes when they pull away, and fuck Eddie has missed him, has found so much to miss in knowing him.

"Don't worry Cinderella," Eddie lets their foreheads touch, lets all that space officially close shut, "I ain't going anywhere when the clock chimes."

#dot fic #dot post #is this anything I just think that new years and slow burns ya know #steddie #steddie fic #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things fic

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catbountry · 2 months

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One of these days I'm gonna get completely zonked and write out an entire fucking essay on why Mister Metokur sucks and I don't like him, but I feel like I could just say "he kickstarted the internet dumpster fire that was GamerGate" and have justified my position completely.

So fucking tired of orbiting communities that talk about internet weirdos/drama and seeing creators kiss the fucking ring of some guy just because he's got a voice for radio and surrounds himself with people who are stupider than he is so he can toss them aside as soon as they inevitably do some stupid bullshit that he can make fun of and feel justified in doing so, like Sargon of Akkad and Ethan Ralph, all while lamenting that internet culture has changed since the 2000's and people on the internet like furries now more than they like otaku.

Oh yeah and he's using James Somerton's suicide note as an opportunity to expose Hbomberguy for shit he did nearly two decades ago and shame him for "troll's remorse." If I didn't highly suspect that this is another ploy by James to manipulate people into feeling sorry for him, I'd probably be more disgusted, but it proves this man just operates on pure spite. Like yeah, I get it, overly-performative troll's remorse is fucking cringe, but you're on a podcast with Null making jokes about "stinkditches" and saying unambiguously racist shit while laughing (in a video conveniently deleted from YouTube from September 17th, 2022). And if it weren't for Jim's army of asskissers, I'd probably be way more open about this sort of thing. But who's even reading my Tumblr at this point anyway?

The first time I remember being alarmed by him was that video he did on that creepy pedo who looked at photos of kids in bathtubs, and he was in a call with this guy and some girl said pedo was friends with, and Jim lost his patience and called her a "hole" and to shut up. People kiss Metokur's ass over this video. I don't even know if any action, criminal or otherwise, was taken against the dude and it was just an exercise in lording not being a pedophile over some deeply disturbed guy who probably had some kind of mental disability.

I am pretty much always going to have a fixation on strange internet people, internet drama, and horrifying nightmare people given unrestricted internet access. This is a character flaw of mine. I have tried to view these people more fairly in recent years, though to be honest, there's quite a few of them that are pretty goddamn hard to feel sorry for. But I also recognize a lot of my fascination was probably, at least partially, trollshielding; if I join in with the people making fun of these people, that means I won't be a target. It was a survival strategy learned from childhood and I'm not proud of it. But I also can't do the full troll's remorse because some of those people I talked shit about really were awful people. That doesn't make it okay when I would be snarky and judgemental towards people that didn't deserve it. Trying to stop a pedophile or helping shed light on a zoosadism ring doesn't make you a good person because even bigots hate pedos and people that torture animals. Congratulations on having the faintest resemblance of a conscience, it'd be nice if you could show that same outrage on behalf of black people and trans women. But we know you ain't doin' that.

Also I swear to god if somebody refers to him as "daddy Jim" and they're not taking the piss I'm gonna give them such a pinch.

P.S. James is very likely alive, btw. Who could have seen the serial liar and manipulator telling lies and emotionally manipulating people?

#drama #oops I accidentally a whole essay

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blue-rose-soul · 2 months

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Always happy to oblige,i personally tought the line was a little cheesy but, hey i'm not wrong!

But about changing alastor's powerset,if you think about it, is perfectly possible to, well not exactly change, more like expand his powerset just by looking at one of his principals (or so i believe) motifs: the Wendigo.

Because seriously the skinny long body,the canibalism,even the deer motif that they have been gaining in the last decades,the inspiration looks pretty clear to me! Not only that but i always thought that,everytime that i look at the image of one they always seem to cast an aura and atmosphere that darkens and cools their surroundings making everything seem ...dead, which seems exactly the opposite of the aura that Hazbin Lucifer brings, his powers always seems to make everything brighter,warmer and livelier.

So for me, as Alastor becomes more powerful, his powers(dark,cold,death,profanity) seem like a reflection and perversion of Lucifer's(light,warm,life,holiness) seems like the perfect idea. Not only that but even without the deer motif,wendigos are always depicted almost like twisted corpses suffering from frostbite,which drives even more the thought that without lucifer's light to guide him, Alastor lost himself to the cold evils of humanity and allowed it to twist him into a monster.

Gahhhh! I can pratically see the fatherly angsty RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME!!!

Al's really going hard for that "rebel angsty yougest son" prize isn"t he?

To be perfectly honest, I don't like associating Alastor with the w*ndigo. That being belongs to the Algonquin-speaking people, and it's not just some random scary monster. It's an actual religious figure. And a dangerous one at that.

But even if that weren't the case, it simply doesn't fit Alastor's background. Alastor is a mixed race Louisiana Creole man. His ancestors would have come to the United States from France or Spain or have been brought over as slaves. The Algonquin people, on the other hand, consist of several different groups who all historically lived in northern parts of the modern United States and eastern Canada. While Alastor could have had some Native American ancestry, it likely would have been from a different group altogether, not one of the Algonquin groups.

And while w*ndigo are popularly depicted in modern media as having antlers or being a deer-like monster, that's really more of a misconception. It resembles a sort of walking dead, gaunt, with ice for a heart or else entirely wrapped in ice.

So, to sum things up, the w*ndigo is:

Not my culture.

Not Alastor's culture.

Not a deer.

And, yeah, I'm aware that there's a bit of a double standard here, given Alastor's depicted as a vodou practitioner. I had him grow up Catholic for a reason, although since the vodou is a part of his established character, as well as the culture he would have grown up with, I don't want to cut it out entirely.

All that said though, I am leaning heavily into the parallels of light and dark, creation and destruction with Alastor and Lucifer. It's like Alastor's a symbol of everything the elders of Heaven expect Lucifer to be. Alastor would hate being called the 'rebel angsty son' but it's absolutely 1000% true! Guess he and Luci have something in common after all.

#ask #umcaracomnumero15 #Hazbin Hotel #the Devil's Bastard AU #Alastor #Lucifer Morningstar #w*ndigo #w**digo #w word #uncensored w word

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romanarose · 1 year

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Darkness on the Edge of Town: Chapter 1

Joel Miller X Reader

Chapter 2

Masterlist

Summary: While heading home for a mandatory lockdown, Joel stumbles on something he wasn't supposed to see with FEDRA guards and steps in. This, unfortunately, lands with him spending unexpected time with a young woman. Oh, and there's only one bed.

warnings!: attempted gang rape, physical hard with a gun, mentions of blood, canon typical violence, lmk if I missed anything! EVENTUAL SMUT

A/N: This was supposed to be a one shot. Now I'm not sure how many chapters we're looking at. Three minimum. Also, I KNOOOOWWWWW this follows the biggest Romana trope: Protective! Man protecting a woman. I will not apologize.

EDIT: This was originally posted as an OC fic, because I had bigger plans for it, but I honestly lost a lot of steam on it. I was going to give up on it tbh but someone sent an ask asking about a chapter 2, and I hate to disappoint! So I'll be condencing the story and making it a reader fic. hoping you guys like it! ****************************

As the sun was setting, Joel walked to his home, trying to savor the last of the outside he’ll have for the next couple days. The local government had made a mandatory few day quarantine for no discernible reason other than to exercise control, remind the citizens who was in charge. A week, give or take, without work wouldn’t be great by any means, but Joel and Tess at least had a partnership, so they weren’t completely on their own. This week, however, Tess was gone. She was making a trade with Bill and Frank when the lockdown announcement came out, and Joel had to radio over for her to stay there until it ended. This meant that he had a week alone in his tiny apartment room without Tess knocking on his door for one reason or another.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” A woman shouted from the alley he was passing.

Joel’s survival instincts said to keep walking; wasn’t his business, wasn’t his problem, wasn’t him or Tess or any of their allies. He didn’t need to get involved. But Joel knew right from wrong, and as much as he liked to pretend to himself he wasn’t a good person, that he wasn’t the same person he was before Sarah died, he couldn’t keep walking. Plus, Tess would kill him if she knew he walked away from this. Turning down the alley, he saw you being pushed and pulled by some soldiers; all men. One pulled you by the shirt so you were flush against him, and you shoved him off yourself, making the young man hit the alley wall. This action earned you a pistol whip, causing blood to come out of you forehead as you cried out, stumbling backwards into the arms of another man, and Joel couldn’t stand back any longer.

“Hey!” He shouted, striding further into the alley. One of the soldiers grabbed your arm, keeping her to him and away from Joel. “What’s goin’ on here?” He said, eyeing the men. He was more or less familiar with them, some he knew their names, some he didn’t but recognized their faces.

One man he had dealt with, a trouble maker who liked to use his power to his benefit and was surround by rumors of his treatment of women. Nothing could be proven, and no real accusations were made; they wouldn’t go anywhere if there had been. His name was Ross, a younger man than Joel was by a few decades, one of those who had been teenagers when shit went south. That age had been terrible in the ‘before’, a time of confusion and soul searching for anyone, and all that had been interrupted by losing everything. This created a lot of inner turmoil that never settled for most. Some killed themselves, some managed it, some became god awful people.

Ross spoke, eyeing Joel with a smirk. “Curfew, Joel, you know the rules.”

“She’s still got ten minutes.” Joel spoke firmly, his stare intense on the younger man, letting him know he wasn’t backing down. His eyes connected with yours. Joel wasn’t an idiot, he knew there were different dangers in this world for women, something he’d likely never have to worry about outside of concern for Tess.

Not phased by Joel the way many others were, Ross continued his hold. “She lives on the other side of town, she’s not getting there on time. But don’t worry” He laughed lightly. “We’ll escort her”

If Joel wasn’t certain what they were planning, the way they laughed and smiled at each other told him. With a grunt, you kick your leg hard against his shin repeatedly, causing him to shout and push you off of him to stop the assault on his leg. Joel took the opportunity, grabbing your dirty shirt and yanking you back behind him. Surprisingly, you smack his arm in return. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“I’m trying to help you” Joel grumbled to you.

“I don’t need it” But none the less you stood behind his broad body.

Ross was less pleased now. “Lockdown is in 5 minutes, how you gonna get her home before then, Joel?”

Joel hesitated. This was the last thing he wanted this week, a week where he had an excuse to stay home, be alone and wallow in his own misery, but there was no way he could live with himself if he just left you. “She’ll come with me”

Ross eyed him, obviously irritated that he’s losing. “You didn’t seem like the type to take in a charity case… or do you have some ulterior motives.”

Joel didn’t play games. Turning on a heel, you were now in front of him and he pushed you forward and out of the alley quickly. “Go”

You shoved him off you, whispering harshly. “Stop fucking touch me!”

“Go” But he kept his hands off you.

As they turned the corner, he heard Ross call out to them. “Four minutes Joel!” His voice echoed mockingly. “Better hurry!”

But Joel was already speed walking.

“Where are we going?” You scrambled after him.

“My place.”

You stopped in your tracks. “I’m not going with you.”

Turning around only briefly, he took one long stride towards her, pointing his finger. “You have two choices. Go with me to my shithole,” He pointed back towards the alley. “Or you can do with them. Up to you.” He saw you glare at him as he turned back around; he did his part and you were an adult, you could make her own stupid choices.

He heard you footsteps. You quickly followed him.

Joel and you barely made it in time.

The room was… a room.

One bed, a beat-up old lounge chair, a dresser, table and two chairs. The ‘kitchen’ was a small stove with a single burner, but it didn’t look very used; the microwave did. To the left there was a door, presumably to the bathroom. You stood in the doorway awkwardly, body tense and stiff.

Joel gestured vaguely around the apartment and grumbled something she didn’t quite understand, but she assumed it didn’t really matter what he said.

“Nice place” You said, looking around.

Looking slightly defensive, he replied. “No one’s making you be here”

You frowned at him. “I was trying to be polite, but fine, you live in a shithole.”

“Yeah, well, this shithole is where you’re stuck for the next few days, unless you wanna risk it with Ross” He said with a little bite, before feeling just a bit bad. When he glanced over at you, you were harshly glaring at him. “I’m Joel” He muttered under his breath.

“Yeah” You scoffed. “I picked up on that between you yanking me around”

Joel turned to face you, crossing his arms in annoyance. “You’re welcome” His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

Undeterred, you crossed your arms back, hips cocked as you stood in defiance, seeming to consider your next words. Then, as nervousness flickers around your face, you seemed to realize the position you were in. Looking away and to the floor, you spoke softer. “Thank you. I know this isn’t… ideal”

“Don’t worry about” He grabbed a flannel shirt and sweats from his drawers and tossed them abruptly at you, then motioned for the bathroom. “Showers o’er there. There's… um…” He hesitated. “Under the sink.”

You furrowed your brow, confused. “What’s under the sink?”

Running a hand through his hair, Joel turned away and pretended to be suddenly very interested in the lamp. “You’ll see.”

“Sounds like a threat, but okay.” You murmured as you shuffled into the bathroom before stopping and turning around, telling him your name.

He gave a nod, barely acknowledging you as you disappeared into the bathroom. This was going to be a long fucking week.

When you took in the dingy bathroom, you decided to see what he was talking about beneath the sink. When you opened up the small cabinet, you found possibly the last thing you were expecting to see in the bathroom of the world's grumpiest man. Pads. The initial surprise you felt was quickly overtaken with a swell of warmth. You wondered about the type of man he was before the outbreak. The last 20 years had broken some of the best people down, the need for survival tearing people apart… but you firmly believed good people remained good deep down, someone inside them, even if it only came out when necessary. And today, as you faced down a group of men with evil intentions, it was clear that this was a situation he couldn’t ignore. You’d seen a lot in your years, more than enough for several lifetimes.

The bath felt nice, even if it was cold, as did his clothes, as well worn as they were. When you padded out into the one room place, you saw him standing over what could barely be called a stove.

“It’s just shitty canned soup, you can have some. I don’t got a lot here, but enough to get us through.”

“Thank you. I can pay you back once I get home”

“Hm.” Was his non committal answer.

A pause.

“And thank you for stopping-”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I mean it-”

Joel whipped around, his eyes intense and alight. “I said, don’t mention it.”

You shut your mouth but glared at him, letting him know he was being a dick. And yet, you really weren’t in much of a position to complain, were you? He had saved you from an attempted gang rape, the act of which caused him to have to put you up in his home, share his clothes, his water, his food… All the while giving no indication he had any ill intentions of his own. How many people would do this for a stranger?

He got his food, sitting at the table and once again gesturing vaguely towards the ‘kitchen’, prompting you to get food for yourself. You didn’t feel you weren't exactly wanted at the diner table, so you looked around for another place to eat, moving over to the chair. It wasn’t the worst thing she’d sat on, but it wasn’t the best either. A new problem was glaring as they ate in silence.

There was only one bed.

You piped up. “I can sleep on this chair.”

“Yeah” Was all he responded.

Clearly, he meant for you to sleep there anyway. It was going to suck, but it was better than whatever was planned for her in the alleyway.

Wordlessly, he walked off and shut the door to the bathroom and it wasn’t long before she heard the water running to take his own cold bath. Amazing bedside manner, really. Top tier. You tried to remind yourself you were looking a gift horse in the mouth, and brushed off your bitterness. When Joel immerged, he didn’t look at her as he walked past.

“So,” You started.

“No.”

“How long have you-”

“No.”

“Do you at least-”

A loud groan as he scrubbed his face, signaling you to stop.

You sat there, staring at the wall while Joel went about his business before you heard him call to you. “Hey. C’mere”

You turned around, eyeing him suspiciously. “Why”

“If you want your fucking forehead infected, that’s on you”

“Wait!” You scrambled up, walking over towards him where he had some basic first aid. “Sorry, I-”

“Sit” He directed to the chair at the table, not making eye contact.

Doing as you were told, you sat down at the table, looking up at Joel as he bent over you. You winced as he applied the disinfectant. “You could sit-”

“No” Despite his harsh tone, his touch was gentle, careful, and moving away when you winced.

“So” You tried to start a conversation again. “Joel. That’s Hebrew, right? Are you J-”

“Stop.” Joel briefly put his hands down, standing straight up. From your view on the chair, you suddenly realized how tall he was. His eye contact, when focused on you as it was now, was all consuming. “We’re not friends, we’re not going to come out of this as friends, we’re gonna be lucky if we don’t rip each other's head off. So how about you stop talking, and I stop wondering if I can drown myself in the bathtub every time you ask me a question.” When you didn’t argue, he oh-so softly applied a bit of antibiotic ointment, careful not to waste the little he had.

“Well, that was a bit blunt” You commented as you studied his face. Handsome, older; graying but not falling apart. His accent was southern, but where? You could not place, but that would explain his sense of duty.

“You asked if I was Jewish an hour into knowing me, and out of nowhere. I don’t think I’m the blunt one here” Joel muttered again, but this time there was a hint of… something else. Not quite playful, there was nearly no change in his tone, he was just as gruff as before, but the way he spoke indicated it was almost a joke. Almost. But not quite. He stood up without another word and washed his hands of the antibiotic cream and remaining blood that had oozed out. Grabbing an extra blanket from the drawer, he tossed it at you aimlessly and hit the light.

“Go to bed”

“It’s 8pm”

“Go. To. Bed.”

“Old man”

This received no response from him, but you laughed to yourself.

“Good night Joel.”

A loud sigh was the only response you got.

**************************

I'VE NEVER WRITTEN FOR JOEL SO PLEASE BE NICE! I don't know a whole lot about this universe or the world building so I'm so sorry if this is wrong. But I love Pedro so so so so much and I love TLOU so far!!! Please leave a comment if you like what you see so I know people want more, and reblog if you are so inclined! It's the only way to spread my work on this sight!

Shocker. The fic is titled after a Springsteen song. Joel Miller Listens to Springsteen, Melloncamp and Petty and I will not be taking criticism at this time.

And! Be sure to check out my other Pedro character fic, Take Your Time with my boy Frankie Morales! Tagging some I think may be interested, if you aren't interested in Joel fics just comment to be removed!

My love, @welcometostayingawake @trinkets01 @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @luciannadraven33 @howaboutcastiel

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hungriestheidi · 6 months

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"I feel lost without you" / sewis if that is possbile

for you, of course it is! (sewis x i feel lost without you)

In hindsight, all farewells are meant for poetry. Lewis knew it the moment the horizon devoured in its fiery fury the beauty of the creature of monumental desire for more, the man and the myth walking in so tight through the narrow corridor of history that he barely knew what was real and what was not. Did he ever mean for the end to come when the guns were laid to rest? Did he ever mean for this to become adoration? Should Lewis have turned around at the crossroads and gone after him?

Meant not for war, meant not for peace, what were they meant for?

He witnesses the spectacle of a new world befall on a grateful nation. The horses are in the stable, his hands are healing. The wounds stretching like cracks on the ground are closing in slowly. It’s been years since the war, the palaces are dusty with footprints of the men and women who used to clean them with their very hands. Now they made living quarters of what were the state rooms and took down the brocade, made beauty out of the lavishness that surrounded the old regime. Now the revolution implies alliances, implies lovely small talk with people who used to despise their guts. Lewis hates them all, would he hate them as well for letting him go so easily?

Lewis rides a horse to the valley on the eve he’s supposed to dine with the men that wanted him dead two moons ago. He’s carrying with him all his heart, all the pieces of adoration that exist here. Lewis has been the soul of this uprising for so long he’s forgotten what it was like to burn in your heart, to feel the flames of something other than hunger, ambition, to rip apart the shreds of the old world. He spent so long putting torches to golden fabrics that he put aside the fire burning for someone else. Is it too late to recall him fondly, to lure him with his promises? Is he to believe him if he says he won’t be lost in the flames again?

In the valley, the ghosts of love are enveloped in an aura of tragedy and sugar, honey and butternut squash on the table. At the bottom of the hill, he is hard at work, with wood and a swarm of bees floating gently around his head like a halo. Lewis sits at the shadow of an oak tree and waits for him to come to him. Is he to say something when he approaches?

“I feel lost without you,” Lewis tells him when he comes to stand by him, the dusk on the hills spreads the glow of a dying day over the valley. Sebastian takes his leather gloves and sits down by his side, arse on the overgrown grass, the wild flowers, the plaguing scent of summer to end, the shadow of the tree turning meaningless with the angle of the sun.

“You’re just fine,” he retorts, for he is not quiet nor delicate with his response. His smile is tightlipped but gentle, his cheeks rosy, a sheen of sweat decorates his forehead. “You’re making politics and romance out of bloodshed.” Sebastian shrugs, a fragrant laugh scraping Lewis’ heart until it beats like a rabbit’s back leg. “You’ll win the nation by the end of the decade.”

“I want not the nation nor the affection of the men in the old frocks,” Lewis shakes his head, reaches blindly for Sebastian, puts a hand on his leg, squeezes and waits. When Sebastian doesn’t push him away, he speaks again, turning to look at his soft blue eyes again. “I want you”

“You still have me,” Sebastian’s hand comes to sit on top of Lewis’, the nuisance of the abysmal difference of their sizes matters not now, when the wind billows their chests, lungs like sails at sea.

Lewis says it again, “I am lost without you.”

Sebastian squeezes his hand. “You are found now, then.”

#late 18th century european revolution inspired insanity #sewis #fic asks #hannah tag

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the-ferocious-kittyrose · 10 months

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William Afton headcanons that swim around in my brain like frogs in a pool filter

(Aka my third attempt at rewriting the fnaf lore)

(Based on the first four games, so no Elizabeth or magic life juice. Sorry.)

When he was a kid, his mother committed suicide and his father decided he wasn’t fit to take care of him, so he sent William to live with his aunt and uncle in Virginia for a while. “For a while,” turned out to be forever because soon after his father dropped him off, he stopped responding to William’s letters. Decades later, William got a letter saying that his father had passed and he left behind a note for him. William was so angry that his father had been alive this whole time that he threw the letter into the fire place. He instantly regretted it and tried to pull it out but it was already too burnt to read.

His uncle forced him to go hunting with him as a kid, to toughen him up. He hated the outdoors and guns, but he found gutting and skinning the animals satisfying. His uncle had to yell at him to hurry it along because he would take too much time doing it. This later evolved into him cutting himself, just so he could see the blood and layers of skin and tissue.

When he was a kid, he wanted to be a clown. He went to circus camp and later clown college. He had his clown college certificate framed next to his masters in engineering diploma. He could juggle, do acrobatics, and was well versed in stage acting.

He often suppressed his accent. He didn’t like people asking questions about his past, or really any personal questions for that matter.

His fashion sense was… loud. He wore colorful suits and sweaters with bright patterned ties. It was an eyesore, but he liked them.

He and his wife, Laura, met while she was a waitress at the diner. It was a bit weird, but to everyone’s surprise, they were married after only two weeks of dating. It was a small ceremony held in the diner, officiated by Fredbear himself.

He wasn’t a good husband. He was emotionally neglectful, pressured her into having kids she didn’t want, and found it funny to put her in stressful/dangerous situations just how she’d react. She left him for a man she had an affair with. Just packed a bag and drove off one day, leaving little Michael crying in the driveway. She tried to write letters to the boys later on, but William always hid them before they could see them.

William loved his sons. He wasn’t the best dad, but he did love them. They were part of him. He spoiled them with toys, but he was emotionally distant and often harsh, particularly towards Michael, who he had unreasonably high expectations for.

Evan was a sweet boy, but he was scared of people, including William, which bothered him a lot. He made a Fredbear plush with a mic and speaker so he could talk to Evan without him getting nervous.

William knew Michael bullied Evan. He put up security cameras in the house after Evan “fell” down the stairs, and he would ground Michael and tell him he wasn’t allowed to hang around his delinquent friends anymore. But all of William’s punishments seemed to just make Michael’s behavior worse. And it didn’t help that William was so busy with work, he was hardly around enough to enforce his punishments.

After Evan’s death, William kept the broken bloody Fredbear animatronic in his basement office. He knew Evan’s ghost was trapped inside the animatronic, and rather than destroying the animatronic to free Evan’s soul, he kept it and tried to make Evan happy inside the suit. Evan was sad, so he surrounded the suit with toys and sweet treats. Evan was cold, so he put Evan’s favorite blanket over the animatronic. Evan was lonely, so he stuffed children into the other animatronics and brought Evan/Fredbear to the restaurant, so he could play with his new friends.

The people who knew him always knew he had a screw loose. He was known around the neighborhood as, “the man in the bright purple suit who walks his pet bunny on a leash,” and, “the guy who got his ass beat and banned from the local bar, because he got too drunk and threatened the owner’s daughter,” They never suspected he was dangerous, but when the news broke that kids were missing at Freddy’s, everyone knew it was him.

William didn’t say a word the entire time he was in police custody. He barely even moved. The police said a corpse would’ve been more responsive. He just stared blankly into space and drooled down his shirt.

Henry defended William when he first got arrested, because he couldn’t believe his friend would ever do something so heinous. He only realized he was wrong after William got released and he witnessed William scream at Michael and try to stab him in anger. Henry took Michael to his house and agreed to let him stay there. When William came to get his son back, Henry told him to fuck off and slammed the door in his face.

William didn’t plan on killing Charlie. He was just going to use her as a bargaining chip to get Micheal back. Plus, Henry would have to be grateful that William saved his daughter from the cold and rain, right? He only got violent after Charlie refused to leave with him. He got angry and choked her until she stopped struggling. In her efforts to fight him off, she covered his hands in tiny red scratch marks that would never heal.

William went into hiding, but was plagued by nightmares and visions of the animatronics. It drove him mad. He couldn’t eat or sleep. Every second of every day was spent in constant paranoia that the spirits of Charlie and the others would find him and kill him. It got so bad that he decided he didn’t care if he was caught by police, he had to go back and destroy those things.

He he didn’t know the animatronics would move at night. They weren’t supposed to do that. When he saw it, he panicked and tried to flee, but they cornered him and overpowered him. They stuffed him in the Spring Bonnie suit, the suit he had worn to kill them. William tried to stay still to prevent the springlocks from going off, but the suits broken down condition, along with his heavy breathing and trembling, worked against him.

He was impaled by dozens of rusty metal bolts. He laid on the ground, writhing in pain, desperately hoping and praying for it to be over soon. But he wouldn’t die. They wouldn’t let him. He didn’t deserve to die, he deserved to suffer.

He was in that room for thirty years. Isolated, starving, and in torturous pain. By the time he was found, everything that once was “William Afton” was now gone. All that was left was a soulless feral zombie like monster that attacked anything it came across.

#tw self harm #tw cutting #william afton #springtrap #fnaf #five nights at freddy's #henry emily #micheal afton #evan afton #mrs afton

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neonscandal · 6 months

Text

The Watcher

⚠️ Spoiler Warning: Levi focused epilogue following the events of the manga/anime.

⚠️ CW: Implies themes consistent with the source material including war and genocide.

Genre: Angst

Tags: Levi Ackerman Centric, Character Study, Meta, Levi Ackerman Needs a Hug, The Rumbling, Levi's Humanity's Strongest

Word Count: 1212

Status: Complete

Summary: Levi's bones were never allowed weariness. As the dust settles, what is left for him in all that follows the events of the anime?

Levi was a tool who'd only ever learned to be sharp. His body worse for wear, he copes with the burden of living in peace as best he can.

On the edge of reason, in a shack earnestly built, there was nothing but silence. Its windows faced rushing waters overlooking sand that hardly knew the weight of careless feet and the wind sometimes moved through the shutters perhaps too easily.

Most days passed without incident or even so much as a knock at the door. In the mornings, Levi Ackerman would rouse himself from bed, a process that had become slower, much more arduous than his days in the Scout Regiment. He’d make it a point to don freshly ironed shirts and pressed pants despite seldomly leaving his home. Even surrounded by muck and grime in the Underground, he’d never been one to dress like a slouch despite how strenuous his efforts were to come by these days. He found merit in the weight of the struggle but something about the pomp and circumstance of getting dressed now presented Levi with a stunning reminder of how the freedom he’d sacrificed so much for had given way to a malaise he’d not yet given a voice to. He couldn’t.

To speak of his discontentedness seemed to spit on the legacy of his fallen comrades which would be undignified. After all, it’s not like he was discontent with peace. That’s what they’d fought for, right? First, to explore and push beyond the walls that had, unknowingly, kept them prisoner. But the more they learned of the outside world, the more they realized Titans were the least of their concerns. Titans could only eat them. Just across the water lived monsters who delighted in their agony, their suffering. Enemies who toiled away at new ways to punish and torment them. A world that feared and hated them.

They’d broken down the walls to find that they were merely livestock encroaching on the slaughter. Their success in Shinganshina opened their eyes to these bigger, unspeakable threats. Prejudices and ideals that even “Humanity’s Strongest Soldier” had no means of cutting down. Their evolving world view turned their decades’ long curiosity and perseverance into a weapon formed against them. Would they have been better off having never pressed their luck? Dying off peacefully behind the walls as resources dwindled? Underground, people died like that every day. Levi’s own mother had succumbed peacefully to her own impoverished circumstances.

Levi shook his head of the thought as his wheelchair creaked sharply over a floorboard in protest. There was nothing “peaceful” about being starved or being ill and left to die. He was no stranger to gruesome ends. From thrashing teeth to unforgiving boulders to weapons constructed and wielded by men, carnage remained a strange bedfellow to him throughout his entire life. Whether this would always have been the fate of a man lowly born, he wasn’t sure, but damning his mother for the same miserable station in life did nothing but graze a wound he’d rather not agitate. Such was the way Levi navigated his days, avoiding the minefield of compartmentalized grief that threatened to send him down a spiral. His refusal to acknowledge that which festered resentfully within him created narrowing paths in his mind that he dare not trod lest the anguish consume him.

More often than not, he needn’t speak a single word aloud, the whistle of a tea kettle being the only sound that penetrated the quiet. On days when Gabi and Falco or an errant subordinate were expected to come by, he’d make it a point to clear his throat so his voice wouldn’t come out irregularly when he greeted them. In the space of their absence, he forgot what his voice was supposed to sound like at all.

On days marked by company, he’d partake in the fellowship offered even if, sometimes, it was only at an arm’s length. This was where he understood the depth of his unease. How after spending decades under the onslaught of destruction and devastation, its nonexistence fit him suffocatingly like a woolen sweater, too early in a humid season. Itchy and tight around his neck like the noose of the gallows just before the ground gives way.

It wasn’t so much that he resented peace nor did he take issue with its silence. But the screams of his comrades had been too loud in his ears for far too long. The cries of their family rang out at a decibel that still hummed, threatening to be forgotten. Regardless of the meticulous way he could maintain his home, his clothes still felt heavy with blood. How could he forget what still felt like fresh hell on his body? He returned from Marley exalted as a hero, never a stranger to such accolades. But what peace could be found for a man who’d only developed skills in killing and surviving by the skin of his teeth? As the dust settled following the Rumbling, Levi could only suffer his guilt forlornly. Cursedly confined to the land of the living after being imbued with the will of his fallen compatriots.

The world begrudgingly welcomed those that resided on the Island of Paradis, somewhat of an uneven exchange for thwarting a global massacre. The walls no longer kept them in but they kept no one out, either. Just as Levi could still feel the blood spilled by his hands, he couldn’t help but hold a grievance against those who’d once been his enemy.

He could rationalize Titans, even if their hunger knew no bounds. He’d seen the kind of frenzy starvation inspired, not only Underground but behind the walls, too. After all, he still remembered the culling that was barely disguised as a “call to arms” simply to give those left within the walls enough rations to survive until harvest. But the new enemies they’d encountered had more than enough resources to sate hunger, more than enough technology to lead soft lives by comparison. They were guided by a lofty impulse of prejudice compounded by a stagnating need for revenge, and were unyieldingly unsatisfied by the retribution inflicted. Having seen their hate firsthand, felt the breadth of its frivolous barbarism, Levi found the notion of harmony after the fact to be dissonant.

Even so, he accepted the notion that war should not be endless. He'd consented to being left in the charge of the Eldian Warriors, having forgiven them for their misguided ideals. He’d seen how the aspirations of mere children had changed his entire world focus several times, enough to know that the path they were on was still being forged. He could sympathize with having no way out but one carved by one’s own hand but could not bring himself to absolve their forebears.

That is how “Humanity’s Strongest Soldier” decided to live out his days. Isolated on the precipice of what separated Paradis from the rest of the world, acting as the first line of defense in a war that had not yet come knocking. A vigilant eye turned toward his enemy should the hate in their heart darken their intentions once more. A relic of an era marked by calamity and doomed to suffer the weight of its tranquility, intimately aware of the cost. Whose mouth could never comfortably bend around the rallying cry of “give your heart” but who gave of his body and soul freely.

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ilovewhiteroses · 1 year

Text

Window To The Soul Part 1.

Pairing: The Corinthian x GN! Reader Genre: Fantasy, horror, drama Warnings: mentions of violence, some curse words Rating: 18+

You never believed in urban legends, but when you needed an idea for your next screenplay, you met a mysterious, strange man...

You looked into your fridge and sighed heavily. There wasn't much in it, just a carton of milk, a leftover slice of pizza and some fruit. You took out the milk, you saw that it was still good so you drank it. You've been at home for days and didn't know what to do with yourself.

Unfortunately, the curse of screenwriters has overtaken you: the writer’s block. Your previous works have been loved by both critics and audiences. You loved to write, but hated the attention, so you always wrote under a pseudonym to protect your privacy from the paparazzi and fans. You didn't even go to premieres, instead, when the film made from your script came out, you watched it in the cinema together with the civilian audience. You loved this because you could see the honest reaction of the viewers there.

Your works were all about human, down-to-earth topics: they were comedies or dramas. But this time you wanted to try something new that would push you out of your comfort zone. So you decided to try writing a horror film. The thought was there, but the idea did not come easily. You went to shower, put on your pajamas and fell into bed, hoping that the idea for your new script would come to you in your dreams.

A few days later, on your way home from shopping, you noticed the comic book store across the road. You've never been there before, but you thought you'd drop by tomorrow to see if you could get some inspiration.

The comic book store was just like what you imagined: shelves full of comics, superhero posters on the walls. You went straight to the salesman, whose name was written on his name tag: David.

"Hello David. Can you help me?" you asked him politely.

"Of course! Are you interested in something? Maybe a classic, Batman or Superman?” and with that he already reached over to the shelf behind him to show you said comics.

"Thank you, but I had something else in mind. You know, I'm a writer and I want to write a horror story, but I need inspiration or something interesting." the salesman thought for a moment before realizing you weren't there specifically for the comics. He leaned closer to you and whispered.

"I don't know, how interested you are in urban legends?" you raised your eyebrows in surprise.

"Well, I don't really believe in them, but I'll listen to them if they're interesting."

"Well, listen to this. There's a mysterious guy living here in San Francisco called The Corinthian. He is rumored to have murdered people decades or even centuries ago and then eaten their eyes. Those who saw him said he had teeth in place of his eyes and that's why he wears sunglasses." you rolled your eyes at what you heard.

Did he really eat their eyes? What kind of Hannibal Lecter bullshit is this?

"Who did you hear this from? Don't say you believe this!”

"From a friend of mine. I think there may be some truth in it." the man said, you rubbed your forehead.

"Look, you may believe in this, but there is no such thing. I think that guy must have paid a few people to spread the word about him. Anyway, whether it's true or not, I think an interesting story could be written out of it. Do you happen to know where this Corinthian lives?”

"Yes, I checked it out once, he has a classic style mansion, I don't know the exact address, but I'll draw it for you." David took a pencil and paper and drew you a map. "Of course, he may no longer live there, but if you decide to visit him, be very careful!"

In the afternoon, with the help of the drawn map, you went by car to see where The Corinthian might live. The mansion where he supposedly lived was just like the ones you've seen in the movies. It was surrounded by green hedges and a black iron gate. You were wondering what to do? Ring the bell? Rather not. You noticed that he had a mailbox, so you decided to write him a letter and give him your number. You wait a week, and if he still doesn't call, you go back to David and ask him for some horror comics. You took your notebook out of your bag, tore out a page and wrote to him who you were and why you wanted to meet him in person, and at the end you wrote your phone number. Fortunately, there was an envelope in the glove compartment of your car, in which you put the paper and then dropped it in his mailbox. You didn't see much chance that he would call you, but you tried anyway. Especially if it really was just an urban legend.

Two days later, your phone rang, it was an unknown number. Other times you cancel it, but you had a feeling... you picked it up and said your name.

” Hello! So, you wrote to me." said a deep male voice on the other end of the line.

"Y-yes. You know, the situation is that I heard about you and liked your story and thought, if you allow, I would do an interview with you."

"We can do that. If you want to, we can meet, say, tomorrow afternoon?”

"Okay." You agreed with him on the exact time and then hung up.

Hmm, that went fast. You were a little weirded out that he didn't introduce himself. Did he stick to the legend thing that much?

When David's words were running through your mind, you felt anxious. Be very careful. You put your taser in your bag in case something goes wrong.

The next day you arrived at Corinthian 's home on time. You got out of the car and approached the gate with shaky steps. You rang the bell and became even more nervous. I’m out of my mind! What if he really is a murderer, and I willingly walk into his trap! But then again, if he really was, he would be in prison a long time ago, you reassured yourself. Still, what's the worst that could happen? If you see that the situation is not good, you go to the bathroom and jump out of the window. At most you would break your leg and arm, but at least you would survive.

You saw a tall, blonde man in sunglasses from afar. You remembered what David had said about them…you took a deep breath, hoping it would clear your head. The man reached the gate and opened it.

"Hello! Are you Y/N?” he asked and shook your hand.

"Yes. You must be The Corinthian.”

"That’s right." he said and invited you inside, a driveway led you to the house itself. On the way, you looked at the many green plants and colorful flowers.

"I bet you have a gardener, because it would obviously be difficult to maintain such a beautiful garden alone." Your voice trembled a little, but you tried to hide your nervousness with the statement. He didn't say a word, just smiled kindly at you.

You entered the house. Towering staircase, tall ceilings, and a massive fireplace. From the inside, his home reminded you of Meryl Streep's house in ' Death Becomes Her'.

"Have a seat. Can I get you a drink?” he asked.

"A glass of water will do, thank you." Corinthian went to the kitchen, while you sat down on the sofa in the living room, put your bag next to you and took off your leather jacket. You looked around and realized how tastefully the home was decorated. He returned with a glass of water and handed it to you before sitting down on the couch across from you. You took a quick drink, as your mouth was always dry when you were nervous, and placed it on the coffee table.

"Do you mind if I take out my voice recorder?" you asked and Corinthian shook his head. You took out the recorder and pressed the record button.

"First of all, let's start with the name. What is your real name? Where did The Corinthian come from?”

"Believe it or not, I don't have a real name. I got the name ‘The Corinthian’ from my creator, The Sandman. Do you know who he is?” he leaned back on the couch as he asked you this.

"Well, I know the song Mr. Sandman. All kidding aside, I know that he's responsible for dreams.” you said crossing your legs.

"Basically yes, but he actually puts people to sleep by sprinkling sand onto their eyes."

"What do you have to do with Sandman?"

"As I said, he is my creator. You know, Sandman, or as we call him, Dream or Morpheus, is the ruler of the Dreaming. There he created dreams and nightmares. He created me, for example, as a nightmare.” What vivid imagination he has! you thought to yourself. Of course, you didn't believe a word he said, but you listened patiently, because your new script might depend on it.

"So you're saying you're not human?"

"Yes. I’m made of sand.” You almost laughed out loud at this point, but you tried to stay serious, though you had to admit that he told you about "his life" with such conviction that you almost believed it.

”Wait, what sand? You look like any other flesh-and-blood person!” you said in disbelief.

"This is only the surface. I am a physical manifestation appearing in the image of a man.”

After this you wanted to talk about something else, so you asked about his alleged murders.

"I heard that you used to kill people and eat their eyes. How old are you, then, and why did you do it?" you were drinking again. You never thought that one day you would want to talk with a strange man about his alleged murders. Corinthian ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath.

"Let's just say that I've been around for quite some time. The reason why I did it it’s because I wanted to see the world through other people's eyes. They say that the eye is the window to the soul – that’s very true."

You talked a little more about him, and then about you, because he was interested in where you got the idea of writing screenplays. Although you couldn't see his eyes, you felt his penetrating gaze on you so intensely that you got goosebumps.

When you noticed that it was getting dark outside, you ended the interview and arranged to meet again so he could give you ideas.

You finally got home. You managed to remain calm throughout your conversation, although you still thought everything he said was a huge hoax. Poor man must have a boring life if he had time to invent all these crazy stuff.

It reminded you of the first time you saw him. Well-dressed, well-groomed, polite, handsome...these are not exactly the characteristics of a killer.

That word again. Killer. You still believed that he must have gotten his acquaintances to say that about him. He told a nice, fabricated story about himself, but at least you had an interesting afternoon.

The next morning, you couldn't wait to have coffee, because you had, well, quite an interesting dream last night. You were lying in your bed when Corinthian appeared in the dim moonlight. You, instead of being scared, invited him to your bed and started kissing, then made passionate love, although you found it strange that he left his sunglasses on the whole time. You realized that you must have dreamed about him because you hadn't been with anyone for a long time and you were subconsciously attracted to him. It's true that he's a good looking guy, but you're only meeting him to get ideas, you convinced yourself. What would you want from him anyway? You didn't even know his real name, moreover he made up this impossible, "I'm a murderer and a nightmare" story.

The day of another meeting has come. You rang the doorbell and when you saw Corinthian, you took a good look at him. You had to admit, there was something in his aura that grabbed you, and by that you didn't just mean his appearance.

“Hello Y/N! How are you?" he asked cheerfully as he let you in. He again looked impeccable.

I dreamed about you last night.

"I’m okay, thank you." you answered and followed him.

"How about we talk outside now? The weather is so nice, it would be a shame to sit inside at this time." he said and looked at the sky. You agreed with him and sat down at the garden table by the pool, where a couple of salty snacks and refreshments were already waiting for you. You chose a peach drink, which he poured for you in your already prepared glass. He also sat down and you took out your notebook to write down what he was telling you

"How's the script, have you started writing yet?" Corinthian inquired.

"Yes, I've already written a few pages." you said and ate some chips.

"That's great. I came up with some ideas, I hope you will like them." he said and you both smiled. When you saw his nice set of teeth, you again, unintentionally, remembered that there were those in place of his eyes...

He began to tell you his ideas, which you diligently jotted down like a student.

"Hm, these are good, I think I can get some exciting and creepy scenes out of them."

"Really? I thought you would say it’s too much.”

When you talked through a few scenes, Corinthian’s smile suddenly disappeared and he changed to a more serious tone.

"Can I ask you something?" the way he asked the question made you feel like the air was almost frozen.

"Of course."

"You know, you look like someone who wouldn't hurt a fly, but tell me...you never wanted to kill anyone?" he asked. You laughed to yourself for a moment and thought he was just being silly, though when he didn't laugh you realized he was serious.

"Only in my mind, when someone annoyed me, but in a normal situation, of course, I wouldn't even think of such a thing." you said. You felt the same uneasy feeling again as when you first met him. You started to get scared, but the thought of the taser in your bag calmed you down.

He is just provoking me, you thought to yourself.

"I guessed that. I see you're scared, but don’t worry. I would never hurt you.” he tried to reassure you, even though deep down you were still frightened, but then you thought that if he dared to ask you that, then you could ask him for something too.

" Corinthian, do you really have teeth eyes?" you asked softly as he nodded. "I want to see."

"I can't allow that. Believe me, it's better if you don't see them.”

"Well, I'm only asking because if you really are who you say you are, I'd like to see proof." you said and gently caressed the top of his hand. He looked away for a moment.

"I’m dead serious. I only take of my sunglasses rarely, in certain situations. But if you really want proof, I can show you something. Come, let's go to the kitchen.” he said and stood up, then you went to the kitchen together. You couldn't even imagine what he might want, but you were curious.

He took out a knife from the kitchen drawer and faced you.

"Jesus, what the hell do you want with that?" you cried out in fright.

"Relax! I don't want to hurt you! Remember when I said I was made of sand?” he asked. He was also nervous about what he was about to do. "I want to prove to you that I told the truth and I really don't bleed when I cut myself."

“O-okay.” you said with a trembling voice. Corinthian took a deep breath and stabbed through his palm as you screamed. He didn't even say a word, he just raised his palm with the knife in it and showed it to you.

And he was right. He really wasn't bleeding.

He pulled out the knife as if nothing had happened and his palm stayed intact. You were trying to breath, gasping for air, suddenly not knowing what to do. You held your head and felt nauseous. Not from what you have just seen, but from the thought that this meant that he really was who he said he was...

TO BE CONTINUED…

Tags: @thecorilove86, @e-dubbc11, @harlekin6, @jessamydreams, @destiny-rahl, @merryandrewsworld, @i-like-the-eyes, @drowningnikki, @delicateteenagerunaway, @imjustmessy, @zealoussaladsublime, @lilithsdreams, @cloudsofcondensation, @blondehotbrook, @enkelimoonstone, @bakerstreethound, @amidalasruby, @kittycat-kai, @hopeless-07, @miss-wednesday98

@littlewierdalien, @littlefoxgirl-13, @dahlinq, @dayleis, @idealai

@icytrickster17, @belladiaz, @smileymissbee

@foodlover123456789, @lazy-queen26, @yellowwithalisp, @onehundredyearsofyearning

@constantron, @violentviolet88, @strudelbug07, @hiraet-h-blog, @underwater-garden, @translat0r, @mirandkimy

#the corinthian #the corinthian fanfic #the corinthian x reader #the corinthian x gn reader #boyd holbrook #the sandman

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thewingedwolf · 11 months

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Reading ACOK and there are three fatal mistakes I think Tyrion makes

He tells too many goddamn people that he hates Cersei and would love to torture and kill her.

He slaps Shae when she gets shitty with him for not standing up to his father on her behalf.

He sends the Vale wildlings away and is stuck with only Bronn’s sellswords, and he knows they are not trustworthy.

I get why he’s so shitty with Cersei and it’s not like she doesn’t give it right back to him, but for a man who is always keenly aware of how unfairly he is perceived, he sure doesn’t spare a second thought for how Tywin, Joffrey, and Cersei are all gonna take him threatening to rape Tommen, telling Varys he’d love to murder Cersei, locking up Pycelle without checking in with a single other Lannister, purposefully sending all her guards away, slapping around Joffrey, and all of this while Jaime is nowhere in the area to run interference. Tyrion is the definition of the trope “poking the tiger.” He simply doesn’t know when to stop when it comes to his family, and especially to Cersei, or how Tywin, who hates him for being a dwarf and refuses to name him heir after Jaime has been on the kingsguard for nearly two decades, and how Cersei, who he knows has this weird and disturbing obsession and hatred of him since childhood, are going to react to the shit he says and does. If Ned’s ultimate sin in KL is that he doesn’t go far enough, Tyrion is the flipside of constantly going too far. Yeah man, Cersei isn’t gonna react well when you threaten to rape her son. IDK what else to tell you.

He is not at all consistent with Shae in what he asks of her. He expects loyalty and affection but the only time he ever tells her about his own life is when he’s telling her horrific stories about Tysha. He clearly sets up their relationship to be “live in girlfriend” and when she gets annoyed because she’s not living the live in girlfriend life, he slaps her for not understanding his fear of his father. Shae goes from being a jokey, bubbly, seductive girlfriend to completely deferring to him after this. It has a very profound affect on her and it reads to me like the moment she realizes being with Tyrion might be more dangerous than it’s worth (and she’s right but she has no way of escaping).

As for the Vale wildlings…he’s just an idiot for this akskkd. The other two “fatal” flaws are steeped in his trauma surrounding his family but this one is just him being an air headed noble, a Lannister believing the world will always bow to him because he’s a cut above the rest. He knows damn well it’s a dumb thing to do because the wildlings are loyal to him for a longer term purpose while Bronn will jump ship the minute he’s offered a better prize. But he puts all his eggs in Bronn’s lil sellsword basket and Bronn stomps all over them just like he has always promised he would!

#rani liveblogs asoiaf #anti tyrion lannister #i mean…it’s not a shitty post just critiquing his actions. he is so smart except when it comes to his own family then he is so short sighted #he’s just…so stupid sometimes

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aromanticbuck · 1 year

Photo

Once upon a time...

in a far away forest, bordered by an icy lake, there lived a warlock who hated all of mankind... but he had not always been this cursed, having ventured long ago into these same woods with the purest of hearts, only to have it hardened and die from the betrayal of his one true love. Having no more heart of his own, he became immortal, and would kill all those who dared set foot in his forest. Only if he ever met a man pure of heart, could he be freed from his curse, and become mortal once more...

His name had been John, centuries ago. He was John of Stonesfall, a soldier in a war that was over only shortly before his life was. His life, on the other hand, was cursed to never end, even if it felt like it had when the curse was passed onto him. For years, he was bound to that forest, to the shore of the lake that it surrounded, determined to wait as patiently as he could for someone who was as pure of heart as he had been when he entered it. Only then would he be able to leave and finally live out the end of his life - free of the power that he didn’t understand that trapped him there.

Except years turned into decades, and decades turned into centuries, and the forest was destroyed so that mankind could expand - it became a city, in enough time, Chicago. There were too many people to kill for trespassing onto land that should have been his, so he settled on an alternative and blended in, instead. But people looked at him a little too long if he introduced himself as John of Stonesfall, and he needed a name that didn’t make people think he needed to be committed to some mental institution somewhere, especially when it might be too far from the lake for the curse to be appeased. So, he chose different names for different identities as time went on - John, Samuel, Caleb, Adam, Daniel, Brandon, Gregory... the latest was Mouse. It was something that no one blinked at as long as he stayed in alleyways, didn’t talk to people besides his dealers, didn’t draw any attention to himself that would leave a paper trail. Then, he would have to change his identity again, and it was harder to do each time he had to do it, when more and more people would recognize his face and potentially expose him.

It had been going fine. He’d lived almost five years as Mouse, and almost no one questioned why his appearance never changed. No one questioned where he came from or where he was going next. It was perfect, until the police showed up when he needed to be anonymous the most.

He’d almost given up on finding another pure heart. The world had changed too much, and those people simply didn’t exist anymore. The centuries he’d spent alone were all for nothing, and he had resigned himself to the rest of them alone. So, he gave the name Mouse to the patrol officer who asked for his statement, any information he could give about the crime that had been committed right in front of him. And the officer - J Halstead was what the badge on his chest said - seemed... nice. But people were only nice when they wanted something, like information to solve a crime, or the body he was cursed to keep living in, or a favor that only he could accomplish because he couldn’t be killed in the middle of it.

Things from there happened without his permission, and he didn’t even know how. Months after their chance meeting in the middle of a police investigation, he was sitting across the table from Officer Halstead at dinner. Three years after that, things were still good. He rarely spent time in those alleys anymore, choosing instead to spend nights in Jay’s apartment, listening to pillow talk that involved discussion about cases he’d closed and ones he still hadn’t solved. When his unit had an open position, using devices that Mouse was an expert in after teaching himself skills as society developed around him, he made sure it got offered.

And that was when John knew he couldn’t keep living that way.

He couldn’t spend every single day in the same building as someone he loved, someone who loved him return, someone who trusted and believed him at every turn. Because Jay’s heart was pure, and that was what he was most afraid of. Maybe he could break his own curse, finally be given the freedom to age and die after spending so long in a kind of stasis, but that would come with a price. A broken curse didn’t go away, it just jumped to the next person, clung to the next pure heart until it was worn down and hardened into one of stone. The cycle had to end, and it would end with him, not someone like Jay Halstead who deserved a real life, the shorter, mortal kind that actually meant something.

After packing a bag and getting ready to leave their home, the one he found himself wanting to cling to instead of just remember, there was only one thing he could do. He had to tell his love the truth, and give him the advice that had been given to him by the witch who had passed her curse to him so many years before. The advice he should have listened to before it was too late:

Run. And never come back if you value this life.

#jay halstead #mouse gerwitz #greg gerwitz #greg mouse gerwitz #moustead #cpd #chicago pd #one chicago #dead hearts #john of stonesfall #alex does moodboards #immortal and mortal aus my beloved #oh my god they were doomed by the narrative #i've been thinking about this all day #i even rewatched dead hearts to feel something #(the feeling was ow)

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numinousmysteries · 6 months

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Vanquish by Wisdom Hellish Wiles (6/9)

On AO3 Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

@today-in-fic

As they drove, Scully shut her eyes and tried to return to the liminal state where she could feel her son’s presence. Instead of the visions she’d been experiencing all day, though, she was flooded with memories—the same memories that had been haunting her for fifteen years.

The first time she held William after giving birth. Monica Reyes had handed him to her wrapped in a towel and she reached out to stroke his impossibly soft cheek. She knew she must’ve been losing blood at a rapid rate since her field of vision was narrowing and her head felt light and fuzzy, but the high-pitched wail of her newborn son tethered her in place and kept her from slipping out of consciousness. He’s here, he’s alive, he’s okay, she repeated to herself.

Mulder told her she was awake when he found them and carried them both onto the helicopter he’d arrived in, but the next thing she remembered was waking up in a hospital bed with Mulder sitting beside her holding their baby in his arms.

“What happened?” she asked him, trying to get a grip on her surroundings.

“Hey,” Mulder said, smiling at her. “You’re both okay. You lost a lot of blood but you’re going to be okay.”

Scully reached for the baby and Mulder gently passed the sleeping bundle over to her, helping her sit up so she could support him.

“Is he alright?” she asked.

“He’s perfect. Ten out of ten Apgar score, nearly nine pounds. Had a lot to say when we first got here but he’s calmed down now.”

She felt sore everywhere and exhausted but she also couldn’t remember the last time she was this happy. The thrill of finding out she was pregnant was tempered by Mulder’s disappearance. His eventual return was strained by anxiety over her baby’s health and Mulder’s feelings of not fitting into her life.

But now she felt relief for the first time in months. All three of them were healthy, safe, and together at last. In that moment, she couldn’t have known how short-lived their reprieve from the darkness would be.

“You good, Scully?” She heard Mulder ask from the driver’s seat of the car, bringing her back to the present.

"Yeah,” she said, opening her eyes and turning to him. “I’m fine.”

He grinned at her but raised his eyebrows in doubt.

“Sorry,” she said. “Force of habit.

“Just don’t conk out on me again. I’m not ready to check you out of a hospital against medical advice for a third time in one day.”

“I’m just trying to think where he could be.”

“Any luck?” Mulder asked.

Scully shook her head. “Mulder, I want to find him so badly. I know we need to find him, but at the same time I’m afraid. He won’t even know who we are. And how could he not hate me for giving him away?”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,” Mulder said.

He reached over and squeezed her hand but she didn’t feel reassured. For fifteen years her decision to put their son up for adoption had hovered over the two of them like a dark cloud, heavy with rain that had yet to fall.

She blamed herself for sending Mulder away shortly after William’s birth and she knew Mulder blamed himself for listening to her and leaving. He never told her she made the wrong choice by giving William up, but she knew he had to resent her. It was a conversation they danced around for over a decade but refused to actually engage in.

“You never would have let me do it if you had stayed,” she said.

A moment passed. His hand tightened on the steering wheel.

“You can’t say that, Scully. I wasn’t there. I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for you.”

“But I know you,” she said, feeling conviction swelling within her. “You never compromise when it comes to the people you love. You never take half-measures or seek the easy way out. When I was dying from cancer, you risked everything to find a cure you had no evidence would actually work. The smoking man offered you everything you could have wanted—my health, your sister—and you still never sacrificed your convictions.”

“Scully–”

“No, Mulder, let me finish. If you were there, you would have found a way for us to keep him safe. I know you would have. I just wasn’t strong enough.” Her breath caught in her throat and her eyes welled up with tears.

This is the point in the conversation where one of them would evade or run away—he’d turn to his work or she’d retreat back to her cold new apartment intentionally free of any personal memories. But they were stuck together now in this car, stuck in motion hurtling inevitably toward the absent center of their lives.

Mulder’s silence told her everything she needed to know. He resented her.

“Please, say something,” she begged.

“If our intel from the Gunmen is accurate and these visions you’re having are truly coming from William, which I’m inclined to believe they are, then we know he’s alive,” Mulder said, finally, keeping his eyes on the road straight ahead. “That fact alone proves you didn’t make the wrong choice. We can’t change what happened, but we can do everything we can to save him now.”

Scully nodded. It was comforting to know that her son was alive but she once again felt the heavy burden of protecting him. She’s failed before and she couldn’t afford to fail again. This time, the fate of the planet hung in the balance as well.

“What if I can’t see him again?” she asked.

“You will,” Mulder said. “I know you will.”

Miles passed by without any visions. They crossed state lines into Georgia and she realized it was the first time she’s been in the state since William’s birth. In all the criss-crossing of the country they did during their years on the run they never returned here. It wasn't a decision they discussed but rather an unspoken agreement to avoid treading on uncomfortable topics.

She remembered driving down here from DC with Monica and how uncomfortable she felt the entire way. Not only was she heavily pregnant, her back aching and both her legs falling asleep under her weight from hours on the road, but she was terrified of what would happen once she arrived. Would Billy Miles find her and steal her baby away? And how could she know Mulder was safe?

It was only the kicks and rhythmic motion of her unborn child that gave her the strength to keep going. She had to stay strong for both of them.

On the road with Mulder now, her hand absentmindedly traveled to her flat stomach. No matter how many years had gone by, she could still vividly remember the feeling of fluttering beneath her skin.

A sudden bright flash of light interrupted her thoughts. The image of the road in front of her was replaced with a vision of a tarmac full of small planes. A semi-truck pulled up nearly right next to a small jet and was met by a black sedan. Two suited men exited the sedan and walked around to the passenger side of the truck’s cab. There’s a teenage boy inside with his wrists and ankles bound. Scully could the rough plastic ties as if they were on her own body. The boy screamed and she felt goosebumps erupt on her skin.

"We said don’t do anything stupid,” the shorter suited man said. “This is what you get for not listening.”

The two men were now on either side of the boy dragging him out of the truck and up a small flight of stairs onto the jet.

“Stop!” The boy screamed and Scully heard the word coming from her own throat. She gasped, opening her eyes and once again finding herself in the car alongside Mulder.

“Scully!” He shouted, abruptly pulling over to the side of the road. “What the fuck was that?”

She panted for air and her heart rattled in her chest. “Mulder, turn around.”

"Why? What did you see?”

“They’re putting him on a plane. They’re taking him to Spartanburg. We have to go back to that house.”

“Shit,” he said. “Are you sure?”

She’s still shaken up and can only nod.

Mulder grabbed her wrist with one hand and used the other to steer them back onto the road. They were on the highway with no exit in sight, so Mulder drove across the grassy median to the shocked honking of the other vehicles on the road.

“Good to have a badge again, huh, Scully?” He looked over at her with a smile that failed to hide his fear.

“Just drive,” she said.

#xfiles #xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #msr #xf #today in fic

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morlock-holmes · 9 months

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Been thinking more about Tucker Carlson. The New York Times published a text he apparently sent to one of his producers:

A couple of weeks ago, I was watching video of people fighting on the street in Washington. A group of Trump guys surrounded an Antifa kid and started pounding the living shit out of him. It was three against one, at least. Jumping a guy like that is dishonorable obviously. It’s not how white men fight. Yet suddenly I found myself rooting for the mob against the man, hoping they’d hit him harder, kill him. I really wanted them to hurt the kid. I could taste it. Then somewhere deep in my brain, an alarm went off: this isn’t good for me. I’m becoming something I don’t want to be. The Antifa creep is a human being. Much as I despise what he says and does, much as I’m sure I’d hate him personally if I knew him, I shouldn’t gloat over his suffering. I should be bothered by it. I should remember that somewhere somebody probably loves this kid, and would be crushed if he was killed. If I don’t care about those things, if I reduce people to their politics, how am I better than he is?

I have a few scattered thoughts. Umberto Eco wrote a book called "The Prague Cemetery" which is a fictional story about the anonymous antisemitic author of The Protocols of The Elders of Zion. Something that puzzled me about the book is that the author is simultaneously in two states: He is fully conscious of the fact that the Protocols are lies he is making up, but at the same time the things he writes in the Protocols make him angrier at the Jews.

I found that psychologically perplexing when I first read the book, but as I dip further into the world of the paranoid it makes more and more sense to me.

Second, can you imagine how hard you'd have to work at blinding yourself to say "It’s not how white men fight"?

White men fight like that all the time, as even the most glancing attempt to understand history will tell you. It's so common that, here in the country Tucker and I share, we have a whole special term for white men fighting like that; we call them a "lynch mob".

Third, I have found myself annoyed slightly at left-win coverage of this text, which I have occasionally seen with the tenor of "See, this proves Carlson wasn't just pretending to be a racist on air."

Here's the thing: Media matters has extensively documented Carlson's promotion of color-blind politics, ( see here, here and here). On air, Carlson takes the current mainstream Republican position: That our country's ideal should be racial equality, that Democrats have betrayed the hopes of the luminaries of the civil rights movement by demonizing whites and engaging in collectivist thinking, that in effect modern Democratic politics are abhorrent because the democrats focus on the color of your skin, while people like Tucker wish for a country that focuses on the content of your character.

One thing I've found vexing about the left over the past... oh, decade at least, is a complete incuriosity about why someone like Carlson would spout that kind of thing when he clearly doesn't actually believe it.

If he really was so dedicated to color-blindness and so horribly against the kind of thinking that looks at skin tone and saddles you with the crimes of everybody else who has a similar skin tone, that utter bullshit about "It's not how white people fight" would never have even come into his head. It's not the same as what he says on air, for the most part

EDIT: Let me be more precise: I'm not an expert in Carlson, I'm just dipping my toe in. But Media Matters and other hostile critics have compiled lists of offensive things he's said on air, and those lists contain quotes that are, for the most part, not quite of a piece with his distress at white people not living up to their race in that post. If Carlson routinely talked on air about how white people fight, I feel Media Matters would alert me to it. So even though I haven't seen much of his stuff, I have looked into at least one extensive timeline of his "decline into white supremacy" and I feel like that suffices for this point.

The more I learn about him the more it stands out how incredibly little he cares about consistency or coherency of his ideas. The shit he spouts about how the democrats are going to let the immigrants outvote you and that's not how democracy ought to work is... in tension, let us say, with his "Actually DEI is exactly like Nazism" garbage. But I'd say even that is distinct from this white pride horseshit.

But I wonder if there are fans of his that are pissed that he gave so much fuel to left-wingers in that text. They like to say that people who rant about DEI and lament the way that it has introduced racial guilt into a world that should be free of such stains are actually just secret bigots, and, whoops! Tucker Carlson is totally a secret bigot.

#tucker carlson #politics #racism

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namorthesubmariner · 1 year

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THANK YOU SO MUCH for that very informative post about Namor's biracial native roots. After reading more and more I can only say Ryan Coogler is a damn GENIUS. Casting someone as talented as Tenoch, having a mesoamerican background instead of Atlantis, AND using colonialism (if the leaks/spoilers are true) as a parallel to the white men that invaded Atlantis and killed Atlanteans in Namor's earlier comics is such a smart move. I realized that both versions, as far as we know, mirror each other in that aspect. AND it truly sets Namor apart from DCEU's Aquaman, which is interesting since Momoa is not even a white guy either (but there wasn't backlash with him, was there? I don't remember). Man, they truly made such a rich culture with Talokan that I can't even believe the assholes saying they ruined Namor when in fact this adaptation couldn't be more perfect. As a Latin American, and as a new fan of comics!Namor and MCU!Namor, I love and support this.

You're welcome! I'm glad my meta was helpful. I agree, the direction Coogler has gone with is an amazing idea and I'm very excited to see the movie! I'm very glad Coogler is handling Namor because you can't have Namor without his roots, and a lot of that is very political, dealing with outsiders/invasion/the devastation of their homeland and people. Which is why all these people online crying #namormynamor are very annoying because Namor isn't some white guy in a speedo swimming around talking to fish. I really dislike when people erase the fact that Namor has always been a white passing biracial coded character, but I also understand no one does extensive reading into older comics and it's not mentioned throughout later comics so the only time it really annoys me is when people try to argue against it with the limited knowledge they have.

Iirc there were some people going "that's not aquaman!" but it's the same kinda people who argue against Namor now, but for the most part I never saw extreme dislike of Aquamomoa because, let's just be honest, Aquaman was always considered a "lame" character. He was the butt of so many jokes over the decades, so when they made him BADASS suddenly people were more on board with this. The weirdest thing is they literally changed Aquaman to be more like Namor. (I talk more about Aquaman and Namor here)

Aside from the fact Aquaman is DC's copycat of Namor and they took alot of stuff from Namor over the years, then they went and took even more for the movie version, giving him bullet proof skin (like Namor), the whole biracial aspect of Namor being non white, even the imagery is really close to his Savage Sub-Mariner run. Yet people were totally fine with a white character being played by a non white actor because it "made him better and cooler" but they want to hate Namor for being non-white and woke because Namor is dealing with not so pleasant issues when that's his literal origin.

I honestly don't care what other fans think, just a few months ago those people weren't even talking about Namor so alot of this is just people jumping on the hate bandwagon, and while I have my criticism of the mcu as a whole, I also think alot of these people are just hating to hate, they don't care about the character, they are just upset it's not being catered to their white male power fantasy self insert fanon. There is alot of bad fanon that surrounds Namor's character but the actual character is so layered and interesting and complex.

I'm so excited to learn about Talokan, and the inspiration from Mesoamerica it takes, I'm working on a master post for all this information so far but I have to mention that I love that the cast came up with a hand symbol that has meaning with their culture

The ¡Líik’ik Talokan! hand gesture is based on ones seen in many Mesoamerican codices. Here's my comparison between a detail from the Codex Nuttall and #Namor Thanks

I couldn't insert the video here but check out the cast talking about it! Talokan Rises! (¡Líik’ik Talokan! means Talokan Rises!)

Also another detail; The conch shell Namor carries! Here & Here!

I just so happy about everything they have done with Namor and his world and I'm excited that now we have two versions but ultimately I feel the same core of the character/his story is intact.

MCU!Namor & Comic!Namor are perfectly wonderful!

Art by Yamrotti on instagram!

#namor #namor the sub mariner #mcu namor #black panther: wakanda forever #imp answers #aquaman #comic meta #talokan

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wri0thesley · 9 months

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please tell me who lucas is i am so curious! is he a character from a dating sim?

fgnjbbfgnk if you have NOT heard me talk about lucas before, that's probably because he mostly resided on my other blog (@needleanddead) until a couple of events in horrorsim/murder-sim/etc fandom made me want to separate my writing and my art more cleanly.

cw: yandere, war crimes, military stuff, cannibalism, murder

in short: lucas is one of my yandere ocs. he is a late 40s former military man who, after witnessing some truly horrifying things, became a recluse who lives in the middle of the woods off-the-grid in a cosy little cabin and who cannibalises people who trespass/get in his way/discover him. his yandere tendencies usually begin when he comes across somebody helpless and sweet and in need of coddling in his woods and takes them home . . . because, well. he really wants to love them.

also take a couple of copy-pasted bits and pieces from his refsheet;

Lucas had an idyllic childhood; a wholesome farm boy with the kind of religious parents who preached love and tolerance above all else, a high school experience that he's able to look back on fondly, a childhood sweetheart who he envisaged one day having a little cottage with a white picket fence before he eventually inherited his family's farm, raising children, playing his guitar to them and dying happily surrounded by only those who he loved-- But at eighteen, he joined the military, and things were not quite so simple. Lucas does not talk very much about the well over a decade he spent in the military. He wears his dog tags as a reminder, and he's scarred and broken all over from various things that occurred; it's worth noting that, whatever he did, when he eventually left his career he received a large payout that the powers that be had no qualms about depositing into a bank account with a fake name. In fact, they practically encouraged Lucas to never go back to who he once was. Now, he lives in the middle of the woods in a cabin he built and repaired himself, as off-the-grid as it's possible to be when one still has some interest in their creature comforts. He developed a rather unusual taste when starving hungry on a mission, once, and it has not yet left him - animals do not hurt him, but Lucas is well aware of the horrors that mortal man can commit. He's committed far too many of them himself, after all. He hates people encroaching on his territory; he hates hunters and fools who have never learnt how to survive in the woods. What Lucas wants is someone who will let him take care of them; someone soft and sweet and domestic, who can make him feel like he's more man than monster. He's sweet, adoring, obsessive, delusional - and the meat that he feeds you has a strange aftertaste that it's best not to dwell too hard on. The world is a food chain, and Lucas is at the top of it.

#nat.txt #oc posting #will just link to this post when i answer asks abt lucas from now on fgnbjkgnfk #he was definitely one of the Most Popular Guys over on my other blog i hope u guys will also like him!#cannibalism cw #yandere cw #lucas [oc]#yandere oc

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vecnuthy · 9 months

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🔀 jopper please or if they aren’t your thing Steddie please!

Thank you, Anna!! I can (hopefully) do Jopper 🤩 This paints a cool scene, especially if we keep the element of them taking so long to finally fall together. It's a proper au! This absolutely stunning song weaves such a vivid tapestry, and I'd be remiss to ignore it.

She couldn't do this anymore. Being in this place, surrounded by the same trees, the same fields, the same hills that reached tall and stretched far, blocking her from the sea where she belonged was literally killing her. She dealt with the little deaths for almost two decades, clinging to the life she had, the lives she'd created in her two children, but they had the same pallor in their eyes that she had long gotten used to.

But this wasn't a life she wanted for them. She had chosen this for herself, back when the opportunity arose. She'd found comraderie in the form of teens her own age, wanted a taste of the life that they led among air, rain, and cloud. To feel the soft grass on her feet and the brush of her hair - dry, frizzy, and full - against her skin. She fell for a boy who was kind and brash, moody like the coastal weather but warm like the fire on her hearth. And, god, did he glow. Smelled of tobacco and wood and musk and made her feel fizzy and light like the head of the ale he drank at the tavern after a day in the wood shop with his dad. She'd often brush the saw dust from his hair or his shoulders, marveling at how it got everywhere while playfully calling him a mess. He had kind eyes even while he gently pushed her away, telling her not to fuss through an uncharacteristically bashful smile.

But anything with James Hopper ended before it even started.

Another guy swept in, promised her security and belonging but slowly left her broken and abandoned with two kids and a cloud that never left her. And she was angry.

Angry at Lonnie for being a piece of shit.

Angry at the life she carved out with her bare hands, trying so hard to make it all fit right, only to manage to bring to kids into it who only knew the drudge of the town, the absence of their father, the pain and ungodly din of his presence when he came back.

She was angry at herself for leaving the ocean in the first place.

When her younger son almost died at the hands of other kids his age, fueled by hate and rumors, she decided it was enough. She left.

It had been almost twenty years since she felt the ocean on her skin, and it welcomed her back eagerly. Took in her kids as if they were its own, because they were.

They found belonging, going somewhere their father couldn't follow. Existing in a place he had always been terrified of, which made Joyce feel vindicated, finally feeling at peace in her own skin with the heavy weight of salt water pressing around her.

She would go ashore every now and then, mingle with the people and just walk around. She wondered if she would ever see him again, though — the boy who embodied a summer thundercloud and its warm rain that glittered in the sun as it fell. He — Hopper — was, obviously, a man now, who had made his own family established in that very same coastal town. He used his woodworking skills to build boats now.

And then, one day, she did see him.

His feet dangled over the pier as he ate an apple. His pants were rolled up over his calves, loose shirt rolled up to his elbows, and she knew that bearing through the mass of muscle he'd accumulated through a life of manual labor. She even recognized him behind the thick mustache he now wore. She thought it suited him.

He looked older. Looked tired. There was a weariness in the air around him.

Eventually, Joyce came to realize that he took a boat out every Tuesday, sailing it up and down the coast, loop it around a small island a mile out from the shore three times. She'd follow it, watching as he and the crew manned their stations, running quality checks.

She also picked up that he still visited a tavern, which is where she eventually reunited with him.

"You're a mermaid, aren't you," he stated, pulling deeply on a smoke in his mouth as Joyce stared in shock, trying to process what he said.

"I thought it was just my imagination at first. My mind dredging up old bones from the seafloor, but then they saw you too. Two weeks ago by Sattler Island. They thought you were a dolphin."

He took in her appearance, then added, "You look different. A good different though. I saw you once with him, and you looked like a shell of yourself."

"I was a shell of myself. Wait, was that a sea shell joke?" she quipped back, making him sputter into his cup with a choked laugh.

She caught him up to speed, told him why she left, about her sons, how well they'd been doing since leaving Hawkins, getting to experience the stories Joyce used to tell them firsthand. The friends they'd made. How they flourished.

And he listened, well into the night, apologized for not doing something about Lonnie. As if he could have.

As if she would've listened.

She learned that he was alone now. His daughter had died of smallpox years ago and left he and his wife with a grief so strong that it broke them apart.

They fell back into each other's lives, and, unwilling to let the other go again, made up for lost time. In the time after Jonathan and Will became settled, an opportunity came up for Hopper to sail for a while, just take off and go, so Joyce followed with him. They got a taste of how big the world could be. How clear and how murky, how angry and calm the sea was in various places. She was part of the sea, though, and amidst it with Hopper by her side, knowing that her kids were doing well, she never felt adrift again.

Send me a 🔀 with a pairing and I'll make an au based off of the first song in my shuffle

#jopper #insert her fire and his caring gruffness in *gestures broadly* there. you know they bicker but it's great #thank you for sending in the ask!!#ask game #vec fic

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