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artist-issues · 1 day ago

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do you think that it’s bad for a people group to keep thinking about the impact slavery had on them in the past?

I think the only utility in it is learning your history: that mankind is depraved and can sell and buy one another, and treat one another like less-than-human, and so watch out for the signs that a society is starting to blur the line about what makes a human a human in the image of God.

and that’s it.

I have a friend who said something really good about this when we went to Togo. After we visited the historical site where the Togolese sold one another to the colonists and saw the places where those people were treated like hated cattle, we were discussing the topic. But my friend just sat there and didn’t join in. And we were all kind of wanting her to, because her family has lived in our hometown for generations, and our hometown was on the map at the historical site where the Togolese were sold out of. So you know. Odds are, her ancestors were from there, where we were standing. Or at least they suffered the same fate from ports like it all up and down the African coast. We wanted to hear her thoughts in particular. But she didn’t say anything.

And afterward I was nagging her about it, I was like, “you have to say something in moments like that, we all want to hear you!”

And she (is not your ordinary person) just laughed at me and said, “I knew it! Every time one of you said something (about the historical site and the slavery topic) it was like you would glance at me to see what I thought or if I was passing judgement. But why should I have anything to say? I don’t speak for everyone else. Especially people who died hundreds of years ago. It’s horrible, and it’s sin, but that’s (slavery’s) not me. That’s not my identity. It’s not yours either. Just look at what God’s done since then.”

I wish I could introduce everybody to this friend of mine. You’d see she’s like that all the time. I’ve known her for almost ten years now and she’s one of the most insightful, chill, wise, fun (she can quote all of Barnyard and SharkTale) people I’ve ever met in my life. I think she was totally right about this (she’s also been right about everything we’ve ever talked about, for context.)

I’m quoting her because if anyone had a right to be thinking about ancestral slavery any type of way, it would be my dear friend. We were standing in the place with a high likelihood of being where her specific greatx grandparents were stolen from their homes and brought to this country as slaves. But she thought about it healthily instead of unhealthily.

I mean we don’t do this when our family-history has a good, prosperous chapter in it, right? When your great great great great grandfather builds a thriving company from the ground up, and generations later the wealth of your family still speaks to the prosperity he had—but if you try and say, “I know about sacrifice! I know about hard work! My grandfather went through all this stuff to build this company!” Most people would roll their eyes at you and tell you you’ve been privileged, that just because your grandfather experienced and lived through some major stuff, that doesn’t mean you’ve earned the right to claim that major stuff. You didn’t go through those experiences.

That’s what we do with positive family history. But with negative family history, what’s going on? Why do we make that our whole identity? “My ancestors were slaves!” and then we don’t say “so that gives me authority to speak to this/so I know how it feels/so I deserve [this-or-that]” but we live like we’ve somehow inherited what happened to them.

And we haven’t. We just haven’t. We haven’t. It’s part of history. It’s not part of our experience.

When we went to that place in Togo they lowered me down into the hole the slaves were lowered into under the colonist’s house’s floorboards and had me squat there, in the dark, for just fifteen minutes, unable to stand up or stretch out or see, while they explained from the floor over my head that I should also be imagining that I’m naked, surrounded on all sides by crowds of frightened grieving people in the same predicament, packed in so close that we can’t even move sideways, either. And other horrors, of course, like the fact that there’s no bathroom, their own tribespeople helped put them in this hole, and the food only came from the hole itself, so if you were furthest away from it in the dark under-the-floor-of-the-house crawlspace, you could just starve to death because it never reaches you. You hope the other sufferers around you are kind enough to pass you food, but you don’t all speak the same language because you’re from different tribes all over the continent. And this is all before you’re even put on the boats away from all you’ve ever known. Just fifteen minutes, I curled up where they were forced to curl up.

Guess what I learned?

That it was just fifteen minutes.

That what I experienced in the moment I could get closest to their suffering was still nowhere even close to what they experienced.

That nothing in my life has ever approached imaginable levels of that suffering. And it’s arrogant and misguided to claim it as any part of my identity. That level of suffering is foreign to me.

And thank God it’s foreign to me.

If you want to claim other sufferings, be my guest. If you want to say, “I’ve experienced a feeling of not belonging as I waited in the line at Wal-Mart,” or “I’ve experienced my teacher using a slur to refer to me,” or “I’ve experienced the grief of a lack of justice” go for it. But it’s not the same as what they experienced.

Our ancestors who suffered through horrible things, do you think they’d want us to be going around, making our whole lives about their sufferings? Making all of our value-judgements on stories we’ve been told about what happened to them? I mean, geez, in fantasy movies when the defeated villain raises his son to burn with a lust for revenge, we think of that as a bad thing he did. He should’ve let his son grow up free, not saddled him with your hatred over experiences he was blessed enough not to have. But we don’t use that same understanding when it comes to unhealthy thoughts about our enslaved or abused ancestors.

It’s not “no thoughts at all.” It’s “think rightly.” What happened to them was an atrocity, and it should never be repeated, and if we see the seeds of that atrocity cropping up in others’ minds or our own minds—specifically a tendency to view one another as less-human-than-ourselves—we should nip it in the bud.

But we shouldn’t make that the crusade of our lives. It’s just turning yourself into a ghost. What happened to them isn’t happening to you. Live your life as if good has happened since then. You get to have friends, loves, communities, where your skin color or language or where you’re from doesn’t get to be the one thing that defines you. They didn’t get to have that. Don’t shackle yourself to an experience you never had; don’t assume that’s what your ancestors would’ve wanted you to do if they could somehow see a vision of you in the future.

It’s just common sense.

Now.

For everybody who wants to reply, “What are you on about, people groups today may not be enslaved but they are still dealing with the f***ing consequences of slavery!!! They’re still dealing with prejudices and racism and!!!” Knock it off. That wasn’t the question. The question was “should people groups who were enslaved still think about it.”

If you wanna ask me “okay then, should people who have ancestors that were enslaved/abused/massacred/discriminated against/ARE being discriminated against themselves in the present-day—should THEY think about it?!” then roll up and ask me that. But it’s a separate question. And I’m tired of this grandpa

#listen to my friend #asked #answered #I hate it when the sociopolitical bog rises up in my blog

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hitlikehammers · 4 hours ago

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forgive me if I jump✨

steddie post-s4 established relationship ♥️

~ for @pearynice 💕🎂

He shoots up at the sound of the flatline; the screaming follows him as he wakes. By the time Steve’s hand shoots out to the other side of the bed, his pulse is already in his throat—it doesn’t get any calmer for finding it empty, sheets cold under his clammy palm but at the same time: it doesn’t get any worse. ~~~ OR: nightmares. trauma. fear. and LOVE being bigger than all of it. 💕♥️💕

🎶 title and concept inspired by this context-less post from Noah Kahan

(which ultimately became this, for reference, which is not so much aligned in terms of inspiration 🫠)

He shoots up at the sound of the flatline; the screaming follows him as he wakes.

By the time Steve’s hand shoots out to the other side of the bed, his pulse is already in his throat—it doesn’t get any calmer for finding it empty, sheets cold under his clammy palm but at the same time: it doesn’t get any worse.

Because it’s gotten less common with time. But to call it uncommon would be wishful thinking. Dishonest.

And there are so many things Steve’s learned in this relationship—not least how nothing that came before it could ever compare, really; or maybe couldn’t really have been called a relationship at all, more than varyingly convenient ways not to be alone—but one of those many things Steve’s learned?

Honesty.

Just…painful, terrifying, vulnerable fucking truthful, ripped out from the center of his fucking chest honesty. Nothing less. And sure, it’s usually messy.

But every single time, it’s more than worth it.

So: finding the other side of the bed empty and cold isn’t as routine anymore, which is progress. But it isn’t unheard of.

So Steve doesn’t wait for his pulse to settle before he swings himself out of bed to go find the warmth that’s missing at his side.

He hangs onto the railing on his way down the stairs, still shaking off the daze of the particular horror that’d visited his dream tonight, and uses the dig of his nails around the grip to coax himself to waking, to shaking the stupor off a little quicker; to focusing on the mission he needs to complete for the sake of his own heart in more ways than one: to find his boyfriend, the better, far-more-precious half of every part of him, and try to fix what he can of what drove Eddie from their bed, and comfort what can’t be fixed straight-out.

But in the same turn: Steve needs to find his boyfriend so that his own heart can stall how it’s trying to tear out of his skin for the way it’s still slamming against his ribs, through his veins. Steve needs to find him, and soak in every form of proof that he’s there, he’s safe, he’s breathing, he’s not dea—

Yeah. Steve needs to find his boyfriend.

And whether or not said boyfriend has escaped to his now-typical refuge: Steve’ll be better served to meet him wherever he is, the more awake that he is when he gets there.

He stuffs bare feet into the first shoes he finds—they don’t fit quite right, meaning they’re Eddie’s, but they’re close enough. They’ll do.

He grabs his keys from the table, plus his jacket because it’s the middle of the fucking night—doesn’t even have to consciously check in the dark to know Eddie’s is next to his own, because of course Eddie didn’t get his fucking coat, so he grabs that too and takes the garage-side door over the front, slings Eddie’s coat over his shoulder, and it’s autopilot that gets him in his car, just to back out and swing it at an angle, front wheels on the grass so the headlights will help him out—maybe he’ll have to jump the battery from Eddie’s van in the morning but that’s so fucking secondary; almost doesn’t register at all.

It does register just a little that his parents would kill him, to know he’d driven on the grass but, like: that only registers a sense of twisted satisfaction, and whole-bodied resolve: fuck his parents, he’d do, and has done, things far more drastic for the sake of the man he loves.

He climbs out again in seconds, ties Eddie’s coat around his waist in hopes it’ll hold more securely on the way up, and makes damn sure the ladder he heaves from where it’s propped along the wall inside the garage sits even and stands locked on the surface of the driveway before he climbs to the edge of fucking annoying-ass slant of the roof where it hangs closest to the ground, so he can climb up and around to the peak, lift up to the top, and swing into the tiny little hideaway Eddie’s made of the overhang outside their bedroom.

Climbing up here to find Eddie has definitely given Steve a whole new set of reasons to hate this fucking house, and its goddamn torture maze of a layout; he cannot wait until they save enough for their own place. They both agreed not to touch Steve’s trust from his grandad if they could help it outside an emergency, not yet, but…Steve’s beginning to think they should revisit that decision. They were gonna save and stay until Erica was graduated and gone, the last of them safe and out, but.

Maybe somewhere new, somewhere far enough—

He gets close enough for Eddie to startle—fuck, he must be out of it, stuck in his head so far to have missed Steve’s anything-but-silent ascent, especially across the shingles—and oh.

Oh, his Eddie.

Steve doesn’t know if distance, more time, or anything in this world at all they haven’t tried as yet can help—but meeting Eddie’s frantic gaze, catching the way his chest’s still heaving but nearly silent, too quiet for Steve to have caught before; that split second where Eddie is raw and hurting, eyes sunken and lips gnawed bright: Steve’ll plan later.

For now he closes the distance as quickly as Eddie does in kind, once he unfreezes, blinks back to the moment, what’s real: arms reaching, needing while Steve pulls him close and covers every trembling inch of Eddie he can reach with touch, with warmth, stroking his hair, breathing deep and even, murmuring low as he presses Eddie tight to his chest because he’s learned that Eddie’s nightmares come in a lot of varieties, but the ones that drive him up here? Away from their bed?

They’re the ones where he loses Steve, one way or another, and staying next to Steve feels unreal, still, for the way they claw and take gold that hard—they’re working on that, though.

But while it’s never been said out loud: in the wake of living that loss, even if only in his mind, Eddie gravitates toward proof of life, tangible ways to drive out the lies his sleeping mind concocts; it unlocks the tension in him with somewhere safe to fall apart—Steve’s arms.

Somewhere safe to unravel into: the rise-and-fall of Steve’s chest.

“Another one?” Steve eventually mouths at the shell of the ear he’s curled down to press lips along, gentle, rhythmic: real.

Eddie nods, as if he needs to, and presses tighter into Steve’s chest in the way that makes Steve aware keenly of his own pulse, the pressure on his lungs: by rights it shouldn’t be so steadying, so comforting, in the way that it is.

But it is, and he feels Eddie loosen, melt into him, and take what feels like a genuine breath in for the first time in far too long, straight between Steve’s collarbones before he stills.

Usually that’s how it goes. He stills, and he soaks in all the little proof points of Steve’s living, working, real body there against him, until he can let go of whatever haunted his dreams.

Or else: let go enough.

But then he’s tensing, and Steve frowns, already concerned, already preparing to catch and to soothe as Eddie tips his head up and pins red-rimmed eyes so wide on Steve, his cheeks the slightest bit shiny for tears Steve’s shirt must by soaked in, but he hadn’t noticed. That was the least important thing to pay attention to.

“You too?” Eddie asks, hoarse and devastated and Steve doesn’t get it at first, just then Eddie’s hand replaces his cheek on Steve’s chest, the pressure making a point of what’s racing underneath still, giving him away and—

Oh. Well.

Yeah.

This isn’t about Steve though, so he just strokes the pale-pink line at the corner of Eddie’s lips—he doesn’t mean to go all the way down to cup a hand around the side of his neck.

He often forgets that sometimes muscle memory doesn’t just leave when it’s not necessarily needed anymore—sometimes it lingers.

Sometimes it makes a hand on his boyfriend’s neck in affection land so that fingertips can count his pulse, because there was a time, there was a time and it—

“The hospital,” Eddie gasps, knows that’s one of the worst—knows wherever it starts it always ends with when Eleven told them the only way to get Henry’s hold out of Eddie for good, make sure that Eddie didn’t go down with the rest of it, was to let him crash then bring him back—and it’d killed Steve, it’d broken him in ways that weren’t just still tender, but that still hadn’t fully closed and maybe never would but Eddie knows that—

Which is how they end up sitting up, leaning back, Eddie’s hands now framing Steve’s face and drawing in for a slow, soft, but incalculably deepkiss that does help calm Steve’s heart: it’s not aimed to go anywhere, and lead to anything. It’s pure affection and care, and it doesn’t soften his pulse, or even slow it really, but it’s not…it’s more.

Like that love and care are flowing in when the valves open and working to convince him down to his cells that the things he fears—and did fear, in person, lived through and fell apart for—aren’t true, here. Didn’t end in the way that would have killed him, too.

“Fuck, Stevie, and I wasn’t there, I’m sorry,” and Steve’s drawn upward in the process of being pulled to lie on top of Eddie, roles reversing as he gets wrapped tight in Eddie’s arms and tucked beneath his chin where Steve’s pretty sure it’s on purpose that he’s crushed against to that wild pulse at its berth, and yeah.

Yeah, Steve breathes a little easier for it. Just…knowing this way. He always does, after that specific memory fuels his nightmares.

He thinks it says a great deal, that neither of them has to speak the need for this kind of comfort, this kind of reassurance. Steve knows it’s sings in his own veins like he’s never felt before, with anyone else, to not only be seen, but to be known for the whole of it. The whole of him.

He lets himself have a few more seconds, more than a few more heartbeats under his ear because Eddie’s still reeling for whatever drove him up here—but Steve lets the sounds of Eddie’s lungs filling up ground him before he wraps his arms around Eddie’s middle now and sits up, pulls Eddie with him.

“Don’t ever be sorry,” Steve kisses the crest of his cheekbone before he asks, so careful, so gentle, and only because the more he knows the better he can help, they’ve learned this.

But the honesty��as he knows just as well by now—sometimes has to hurt in the process.

“Which one drove you up here?”

Eddie shakes his head—not ready yet, and that’s fine, that’s so okay—and he moves to lean, to burrow in Steve’s neck and that’s okay, too, but his eyes catch on the dim headlight-glow against the tarp over the pool and Steve doesn’t even have to be this close to catch the flinch that follows so he asks soft, and only as he guides Eddie into his chest at the same time:

“The car?”

There’ve been more than a couple rough nights caused by contortions involving Steve’s car; Steve can’t know for sure which got center stage tonight, or if it was a new horror show altogether: just knows his chest burns for how Eddie trembles against him—still.

Eddie nods against his neck, though, doesn’t try to fight or deny at all and Steve leans to press his lips to the top of his head when Eddie speaks only—unwaveringly—against the place where Steve pulse beats at the line of his throat:

“Leaving.”

And Steve knows how he means it, and if anything could kill him more than knowing there’s space in Eddie’s head for the absurdity of such a thing—that Steve ever could, ever would even think about leaving him, what they have, what they are working together so hard to make for keeps in a forever kind of way—

The only thing that might have the capacity to kill him more is how that space in Eddie’s head doesn’t fade as quick as a dream, and follows him here. To this.

“But then, you were gone but then there was a,” Eddie hiccups a little—Steve can’t feel if there are tears but it doesn’t matter; there’s clearly heartbreak and that’s bad enough; “an accident, a bad accident, you…”

“Are right here, babe,” Steve takes hold of him and leans back like Eddie did before for him, tucks Eddie tighter up against his own heartbeat which is still heavy but calmer, now, so he whispers fierce as he buries his face in Eddie’s hair:

“I’m right here.”

And Steve holds him there; only moves to pull his unzipped coat up and around them both, to make a cocoon of what it means to live and breathe and feel this much, still, after being been hurt enough to easily have snuffed it all to ash.

It’s Eddie’s turn to need that proof of life: undeniable.

“We didn’t even fight,” Eddie mouths more than anything to Steve’s skin where his chin’s dragged down the collar of his shirt; “you just,” his voice breaks again, and Steve’s arms tighten further by default; “couldn’t do it anymore, couldn’t handle…”

He breathes shaky, and shakes his head kinda nonsensically against Steve’s chest, only slightly, never sacrificing where his cheek lies and his ear holds to hear, to listen, and Steve cradles the back of Eddie’s head closer to him, breathes steady and slow as best he can just to try and give Eddie somewhere to grasp at, a foothold to stand on. Anything.

Everything.

“I’m so scared, Steve,” Eddie finally halfway-sobs, so lost and desperate, and clinging so hard onto Steve that it’s tight in Steve’s throat, in Steve’s chest, too. “Yeah, it’s gotten better, but I’m still so fucking scared.”

And Steve gets it. Steve understands. Steve’s not immune to it himself in the slightest.

He still hates it exponentially more for how it hurts Eddie.

“It’s bad enough that that, that place still haunts me, haunts us both when its fucking burned to dust, when there’s nothing, we couldn’t even getthere, fuck, fuck, for all intents it doesn’t even existanymore,” and Eddie sounds bitter for it, which Steve understands well enough; he hates that they gave so much, and ultimately won the war, but that the war didn’t end with the victory. That it claws at them like this. That it hurts Eddie so much, for how soft and big his heart truly is—Steve would have him no other way.

But Steve would give anything to take that hurt from under those ribs and into himself, just to spare him.

“Jesus,” Eddie’s inhale catches, and he shakes more than he was—Steve pulls the coat around them closer, though he’s not sure he actually can, but fuck if he’s not gonna try, just in case any part of it’s something he can help fight back.

“But then I have to dream, still, of losing you to the simplest bullshit, these, these normal fucking tragedies anyway, after everything we survived,” Eddie’s voice pitches louder, but stretches thin to breaking; “or straight up losing you because of mybullshit—”

And that, that’s also not new, so neither of them can possibly claim it’s a surprise how Steve hauls Eddie up and stops the words, the simple suggestion with the press of his mouth because: no.

Steve will spend the rest of his life proving it—he’s not immune himself, knows he needs it too, sometimes—but if kissing the nonsense quiet, smothering the sheer pain that the very thought lances through him, twists in his ribs with how much Steve feels the very opposite?

So fucking be it.

“I’m afraid that there’s still stuff you don’t know, even now, not yet,” Eddie whispers between them finally, a little wet on the last syllable in a way that wrings Steve’s heart, and once upon a time Steve would have said that in itself was just so very not-Eddie.

But Steve knows better, now. Knows Eddie better, now, and knows this part of him that’s rarely been trusted to the world at all and while Steve hates with everything in him that it has to exist at all, he’s so goddamn grateful, fucking honored to be trusted; to have proven himself good enough to merit it: to hold the privilege in the palm of his hands to try and keep it safe, and make it better where he can, always.

His Eddie: through and through.

“And then when you find out you’ll know, you’ll realize it was all a fucking waste, on me—“

And that: that’s more nonsense. So Steve’s mouth knows automatically where to go.

Because Steve’s in this forever. Steve’s in this for always. He’s thought himself a romantic from the first suggestion of the idea and yet he had no goddamn clue until he bumped shoulders with a pretty fucking nerd in a hellscape and felt butterflies; until he hauled a body everyone else screamed at him to leave, they couldn’t risk slowing down but they couldn’t understand what Steve already knew:

If the body weren’t a person, living and breathing and already winding tight through Steve’s heart, Steve would be dead, too. He knew that without a fucking doubt, even then.

And so now it’s only grown—the feeling and the certainty and the impossibility of ever letting go—and Steve’s learned well these past months how to say that, maybe best, in the way he kisses deeper than he used to know how, to feel it deeper than he knew anyone could—more likely than not only possible, really, because it’s Eddie.

And what he has with Eddie is something he never knew to think of seeing in the world at all, let alone something he’d even get to touch for himself—and then, to keep?

Steve Harrington’s not going fucking anywhere, not for anything.

He keeps his lips locked to Eddie’s until just past the point where they’re breathless and it could be terrifying—but Eddie chases it even as Steve eases them away, panting and gripping at each other as their chests knock, eyes blown in the dark to see everything.

And so he sees Eddie trembling—which yeah, he has been since Steve found him, Steve’s felt in it holding the man in his arms, and they’re both still levelling for the sake of needing air—but it’s not just the kiss. It’s not just a tightness Steve put there for pushing the way their tongues were trying to coax each other’s soul out whole.

So Steve leans to suck at the visible beat under Eddie’s jaw for a second before he tucks Eddie back in against him and lets him blanket across Steve’s chest, stretches so he can better nestle the base of Steve’s throat.

“Never,” Steve speaks it low, not least so that Eddie feels it rumble where he rests his head, like it could shake straight into that rapid fire brain of his; “I would never. I could never,” he hums; Eddie’s breath catches just short of a whine:

“It’s not possible.”

Doesn’t matter how long they’ve been this, together: Steve cannot imagine his life without Eddie. It’s not even just that he doesn’t want to; it’s that he can’t remember why it would be worth it, now that he knows what his life was built for: this.

Them.

Finally, after beat-after-beat-after-beat of just their gasping coming down, his breath so so fast, and voice so so fragile, Eddie tries to be, what’s the word Rob’s always throwing at him?

Contrary.

(He thinks that’s it.)

“But you—”

This time Steve doesn’t still Eddie’s lips with his own, not for lack of wanting, but definitely for the recognition that there are things that need saying, much as Steve used to chafe at too many words in a row: he’s learned that too, with Eddie. And he’s so fucking grateful for it; the life they’ve had to live, as much as the life they’re lucky enough to live now—all of it kinda needs the words.

“I’m not some defenseless maiden in one of your campaigns,” Steve tells him in the simplest, surest terms he knows; “I know you, you let me know you,” and he kisses the bow of Eddie’s lips at the top before he noses against the line of his jaw:

“And whatever bits and pieces that maybe haven’t seen the light yet,” he kisses the point of that jaw and goes further, mirrors Eddie again to kiss a ring around the blood beating still so fucking fast at his neck:

“I’m so ready to know them, and hold them close when they’re the scared parts, and square up when they’re the demons and fight them with you, and just,” and Steve finally just kisses that beating heart, when it pounds into the purse of his waiting lips like a gift all its own before he straightens enough to meet Eddie’s eyes:

“I signed on for all of you,” Steve brushes Eddie’s hair behind one ear, delicate and adoring as he’s flooded with how true the words are in his own chest: “because all of you, is what I fell for.”

“You can’t fall for what you don’t know is there—“ Eddie tries to protest, though it’s weak.

The fact that it’s there at all, though, isn’t something Steve was ever going to allow to stand.

“When did you know you loved D&D?”

Eddie blinks; frowns.

“What?”

Steve tilts his head, raises a brow: waits.

Eddie lets out a slow breath and answers, kinda hesitant—uncomprehending, but honest:

“First time I read more than a page of The Player’s Handbook at a flea market.”

Steve can picture it, the innocence; the wonder—how little has really changed, not at the heart of him.

“So you didn’t know everything yet, right?” Steve presses on. “But you still knew?”

And it’s in the inflection, the way he says that last word that Eddie gets it—it’s what Steve has wanted to get picked up and seen—and Eddie tries to sigh, to shake his head:

“Steve—“

“And you still feel the same, maybe more, now?”

“Steve, that’s just a fucking game. You, you’re,” and Steve would like to dwell on Eddie calling it just a game, not least to preen a little that it’s done to elevate his own significance in Eddie’s affections, but it’s not the time, and the tone of Eddie’s voice is too fucking bleak:

“I’m so fucked up, Stevie,” and he sounds just…so forlorn, so resigned; “I’m still so fucked up,” and there Eddie shifts, moves just enough to reach Steve’s face, to stroke his cheek like he’s precious beyond measure, his eyes glowing in the wan light that the car’s still giving, glinting with a welling up of tears that pull at the linings of vital things inside Steve’s chest.

“You’re everything there is, Steve. You’re what makes breathing still feel worthwhile, after everything,” and it’s hard, because seeing Eddie this way is killing Steve by a thousand fucking strikes but then, he can’t complain for being loved like this, would never; not least when he feels the exact same to the fucking letter.

“I’m damaged fucking goods, just a goddamn losing bet,” Eddie’s shaking his head and Steve can’t pretend he’s never felt the same but he likewise can’t pretend he’ll stand for Eddie seeing himself in a way that just so…

Wrong.

So he darts a hand and laces his grasp with Eddie’s in that way that’s become innate as he leads Eddie palm to his own chest and presses hard, to the point of pain, and it feels so fucking right as he near-hisses, pledges like a vow:

“You’re my heart.”

Eddie stills, barely seems to blink, stares at their joined hands. Presses close to feel, even harder.

Only more right.

“Simple as that, man,” Steve’s words land like a shrug, a given. “You’re kinda…the beat that keeps me breathing.”

Steve doesn’t know if that’s corny, or weird to say: but he doesn’t really fucking care, because it’s the unvarnished truth and he stands by it. And he thinks he’s more than qualified to say it and mean it, have it mean something real, because, like—

“And I mean, you know what it’s like, at least a little,” Steve lifts Eddie’s hand, gets a tiny whimper for moving it but makes up for it by kissing his knuckles; he knows that Eddie knows what it feels like, with his parents, with this fucking town; what Steve’s about to say isn’t wholly lost on Eddie, just a different…flavor:

“But I’ve had that heart ripped out and stepped on,” Steve takes a breath—remembering doesn’t hurt like it used to, especially not with Eddie in his arms, but that’s doesn’t mean the sting’s all gone: “spat on for what I tried to give along with it.”

And this time Eddie’s the one whose hand twitches: fierce, held tight, almost protective.

It’s a reaction Steve’s never been on the receiving end of before, not like this. As if he’s worth it, and unquestionably so. He’s definitely gotten used to it, a little at least, but is still always a little surprised how warm it lands, spreading through him molten like gold.

“Hurt like fucking hell, y’know, and I think that was when I stopped believing I’d ever find someone who could put up with me,” Steve admits, not as if he’s tried at all to hide it, but more in that he doesn’t think he’s said it quite so plain, right out loud; “like, who’d want me even if you erased all the Upside Down fuckery,” and the molten feeling gets a little extra kick for the sound that escapes Eddie at that, close-on to a growl.

“But then the fuckery grew, and then there were Russians and it was like I was made up more of just how it fucked my head up, wrapped in a bunch of gnarly scar tissue, more that than anything else, and my love was still too much, so I mostly tried to hide it,” he lands on, and somewhere while he was speaking Eddie’s curled down to replace his hand with his head over Steve’s chest again, still protective. More so, maybe.

“So I was scared, too,” Steve admits, not ashamed now but actually kinda proud, maybe a little, because here he is, actually putting it in words:

“I was scared at the beginning. With you.”

Eddie finally looks up, then, meets Steve’s eyes with lips parted, hanging on each word but visibly working through a struggle to make it all sink in, add up the way Steve means it to.

That’s okay. Sometimes it is hard; doesn’t mean it’s bad, or wrong, or anything less than the best thing he knows; the only life he even wants, anymore.

“I hid,” Steve nods, swallows a little rough; “in my own way, I hid, too.” From embracing how his eye was caught more indiscriminately than most; from accepting that his heart was always going to swell quick and ready first, and it wasn’t a fucking crime, it just more often than not was gonna hurt; that Eddie Munson had been a puzzle he couldn’t understand at the peripherals of his world for a while already before they were thrust into the apocalypse.

That’d all probably been a good bulk of the reason for his little nugget speech in the RV, which still gives Eddie a good laugh now and again, so no matter how mortifying, he can’t even fully regret what the hiding made him do.

Until—

“But then we almost lost you, we did for those horrible handfuls of seconds, worst of my whole fucking life, when all I could see out of nowhere was the future, and it was made of you, and it was the piece of me getting spat on except it felt like allof me,” and it had, the experience never leaving Steve, not really, that hollow fire that’d destroyed him unrelenting; “all of me just getting ground into dust because I’d lost you before I could ever have you, and all I knew was that you were all that mattered and you were gone, so what even was the fucking point—“

Steve runs out of breath, and Eddie sits up, but Steve’s takes the in to flip their hands caught between them, takes Eddie’s from where his own pulse has picked up for he memories, and the feeling and pressed his palm to Eddie’s chest: the point.

He didn’t expect to need proof of the whole fucking point as badly as he does.

“Then you were back,” Steve’s sighs out relief and gratitude the same way every single time, Eddie’s heartbeat a balm as much as a fuel, a sacred sort of fire in his veins to keep going because the words are maybe never going to be easy, never going to come natural like they do for Eddie but: for Eddie, Steve will do just about anything.

With that as the starting point: this is child’s play.

“Then you were breathing again and I knew I couldn’t let being afraid be enough. It could live here, maybe will forever,” he brings his other hand back to his chest, where the terror simmers, and Eddie sees the opportunity to touch again and slides his fingers in tight to hold there, too; Steve can’t help but smile, and relish the little extra beat that the feeling nudges through his veins.

“It could live here forever,” Steve squeezes Eddie’s hand against his ribs; “ but never at the cost of you.” Then he pulls, presses his other hand in Eddie’s on top and gathers everything to the core of him as he pledges, vows exactly that deep:

“Never more important, here, than you.”

And Eddie’s breath catches, and he tips forward into Steve’s neck again—and Steve slips one hand free to hold him, to protect him from all sides, too.

And to hold him together, in case the rest of what Steve needs to say, needs him to hear, shakes through him too strong.

“You were like,” Steve licks his lips, shakes his head, holds Eddie a little closer, this time maybe more for his own sake, as he breathes out just against Eddie’s ear:

“I think maybe we both, in our own ways, are scared fucking shitless,” he huffs, because it’s not that simple but it’s exactly that simple; “and on the surface even, we deserve to be ‘til the day we die, if that’s what it shakes out as,” and Steve does believe that, Steve’s come to terms with it and yeah, he’s still working on not judging it so harsh but he is working on it. Robin pushes him.

Eddie…inspires him.

“I hope it doesn’t,” Steve admits softly, because part of him is scared of being a little scared forever; “but it’d be more than understandable. More than justified.”

So yeah, part of him is a little scared—but more of him?

More of him—

“But I think we’re more scared, and so much deeper with it,” Steve threads his fingers through Eddie’s curls, buries his face a little in the mess of them to breathe him in:

“And in the deeper fear, that deeper place, I think it means that we,” he swallows, and is grateful that Eddie is held tight where he is just now, so that the words Steve says when words aren’t his strongest suit can be backed up by how fucking hard his heart’s beating again, because he feels this, he fucking means this:

“That we feel something so fucking big, this massive beautiful thing that could tear us apart as quick as it lifts us up and we want both, or either, or all, whatever it gives because we just,” Steve sucks in a breath, because honesty, honesty; “we need it, we—”

And Steve stops on a dime when he feels Eddie’s mouth press to the center of his chest even through their clothes, heady and potent; feels his lips move as he speaks, hoarse but not trembling, scratchy but sure:

“Loving is terrifying,” he says, and not at all like it’s a regret, more heavy like it’s a privilege with real goddamn weight as he slowly works his lips up Steve’s throat and the leans back just enough, onlyenough to meet his eyes:

“But I’ve never felt more alive than I do for every fucking bit of it, with you, because it’s you,” Eddie grabs the hand of Steve’s he’s not still holding square-on and laces their fingers, unshakable.

“Living at all hasn’t ever felt more right.”

And there’s something in those words, or maybe the way they’re said, that shakes Steve to his bones, tightens his hold on Eddie to the point of a blissful sort of pain.

“I jump when you grab your keys, when I hear them rattle,” Eddie whispers like a secret, like he’s not proud of what he’s saying but he can say it, because it’s Steve. “Sometimes even when you’re next to me, driving us both home, because home is the same for us both and most times I can latch on to that, and remind my body that we’re just going home,” Eddie sucks in a sharp breath and his eyes almost glow as he locks them onto Steve’s even more unbreakable, somehow:

“That you are my home.”

Steve’s heartbeat trips again for that, overfull, and Eddie’s hand clenches in his shirt so tight, still protecting.

“But sometimes,” Eddie closes his eyes, clenches his jaw before spilling out, voice suddenly so very small:

“Sometimes I’m scared you’re just dropping me off, and stopping in while you pack.”

And god, he…that’s what he…

“That’s why you were so,” and Steve doesn’t have to say on top of everything, he doesn’t have to say building on the obvious—he doesn’t have to.

“I went to the car.”

Eddie swallows hard; nods like it’s a battle. Yet he does it.

Steve’s so proud of this man. Steve’s honestly proud of the both them.

“Yeah,” Eddie grinds out, sandpapery and a little painful even just to hear but now it’s there, now they know.

And Steve can gather him close, press him in slow and arrange just so atop him as he lays back down, remembers he brought Eddie’s coat too as the real dead of night starts to settle in, so he shimmies it off his waist and doesn’t bother convincing Eddie’s arms to give up where they’re wrapped around Steve, he just tucks it in as a blanket around them over where his own jacket’s pulled as tight as it can go to keep them both, and then he sighs, exhausted but content and maybe they’ll climb down the ladder Steve had made sure was waiting; maybe they’ll swing straight into his room, the same as Steve’s sure Eddie made his way out in the first place. Maybe they’ll wake up to the sunrise right here, just like this.

Steve’s happy regardless of whichever he gets, because all of it happens together.

“Just for the lights, babe,” he breathes into Eddie’s curls, kisses them firm and holds until the sentiment, the single statement swells to keep the whole of what Steve means for the keys, the car, the idea that he’d ever go anywhere without Eddie that he’s not coming home from, and that his home is Eddie, too: always.

Always.

“Only the lights.”

♥️♥️♥️

✨also on ao3

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @allmyfavoritethingsinoneblog @anthrobrat @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @disrespectedgoatman @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @friendlyneighborhoodgaycousin @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @madigoround @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here and here and here and here

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chirpingfromthebox · 2 days ago

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The Sirens' Post-game Session from 3/16/2025 - MIN at NYC in Detroit

youtube

The Sirens' post-game press session from after their Takeover Tour game against the Minnesota Frost in Detroit, MI, USA on March 16th, 2025.

At the table were assistant coach Josh Sciba and forwards Taylor Girard and Abby Roque.

My transcription is under the break.

[Video begins]

Off-screen staff member of some kind:

Good evening, everybody. We have assistant coach Josh Sciba, Michigan native. And Michigan-native Taylor Girard. As well as Michigan-native Abby Roque. Anyone can start here.

[Image Description: a screenshot from the interview. Josh Sciba, Taylor Girard, and Abby Roque are sitting at the interview table. Girard has her head cocked and is smiling in a smug-looking way and Roque seems to be giving her a side-eye. In truth while I'm pausing the video to transcribe I sometimes pause on a random moment that makes me laugh, because it seems to have an out-of-context life all its own and I'm compelled to show it to others. /. End of ID.]

Reporter:

Taylor, we kind of talked about it last week leading up to this weekend, but how did this game- did it meet your expectations? Did it exceed your expectations? The crowd, the atmosphere, everything?

TAYLOR GIRARD:

Yeah, for sure. I think it exceeded my expectations, for sure. I mean, we just broke the U.S. record: that’s so special. I had chills out there. So cool to see everybody, so cool to see all the little girls in the stands wearing their home team jerseys. It was really cool, I wish I got to experience this growing up.

Reporter:

Are you glad you were part of it as a player though?

TAYLOR GIRARD:

Oh my god, so happy. Yeah. It’s wonderful.

Reporter:

Abby, you want to kind of speak on it too? Obviously I know you’re from the U.P., but obviously still got the Michigan ties [???].

ABBY ROQUE:

Yeah, absolutely, I’ve been getting, like, bullied because I’m from the U.P.. Everybody’s like, “I’m from Toronto and I’m closer to here.” I’m like, “Okay!” [laughs] But obviously Michigan and, like, being in Detroit like that was the big trip when you were a kid to see the Red Wings play and things like that. And that was kind of the only option around here to see this level of hockey, unless you wanted to go watch men’s college. So being able to have this game and see all of the little girls? I mean, you look around there’s every little team jersey you could imagine from the state coming to this game; so it is really special.

Reporter:

Abby, going off that, you posted on your instagram a couple photos of you in the Joe Louis Arena—not in this arena of course—but you know, walking down here, seeing all the photos, the banners, everything like that; how does it feel now to be, you know, playing here? Seeing all that from a player’s perspective, but also thinking about little you sitting in Nick Lidström’s stall in Joe Louis Arena.

ABBY ROQUE:

Yeah, I was for sure blessed as a kid. I know the equipment manager for the [Red] Wings really well, so I got to meet a lot of the guys and I got to go in the locker room as a kid. So right before the game I was like, I wanna see the new one, so I went and checked that one out. And it is really special. Those are the people I looked up to. Like Pavel Datsyuk was like the guy when I was a kid. Like, now you’re playing in the same building the Red Wings do? It is something that you, like, as a kid, I don’t think I ever truly imagined when I got to the point that I knew girl’s hockey was the only route? And now that it’s kind of coming full circle and we’re getting close to selling out these giant arenas, like, it’s a full circle moment for sure.

Reporter:

Josh, I mean, obviously, you know, the last couple years we’ve really seen that these two Takeover games, just the attention to women’s hockey growing in this state, for a state where women’s hockey hasn’t really been at the forefront because of no pro team or NCAA team. What is it like to see, just the support for this league and how these two games have gone?

JOSH SCIBA:

Yeah, I think you look at the crowd out there: I think it speaks volumes to what hockey means to Hockey Town here, right? And I think it’s a really special opportunity that we get to participate in a game here. And just to be around these players, I think, every day and to see how they interact with the young girls that are at these games. But, you know, to see the environment here in Detroit, to feel that passion, to say- at the end of the game you hear the chants of “We want a team”? I think just a really special opportunity for us. I think we’re grateful to be a part of it here.

Reporter:

Abby, kind of going off that, we spoke a little bit on Thursday, just, there’s a gap between such high-level hockey, so many amazing programs for youth here, but once you turn 18 there’s not really opportunities to continuing playing at the next level. And with the talk of Detroit potentially getting an expansion team what do you think about Michigan, Michigan State, other universities, NCAA, like, stepping up to try and close that gap? And should we have a PWHL team if we don’ even have a single women’s NCAA team?

ABBY ROQUE:

I mean, I think, definitely not having that college team, I don’t think affects the PWHL

team being here, if that would be the case. I think, honestly, having any team for these little kids to look up to in this state would be amazing, whether that’s college or the PWHL. I mean, I was sitting here probably 15 years ago and probably was waiting for Michigan or Michigan State to get a team. And I think a lot of people are still kind of waiting. But I think now that there’s this professional level, there’s other outlets for kids to look up to and be able to look to and I think that’s really special as well.

Reporter:

Taylor, do you think there’d be a benefit of having an NCAA or P-dub team? For the growth of the game which one would benefit more do you think?

TAYLOR GIRARD:

Yeah, absolutely. I mean, I don’t think there’s one or the other that would be more beneficial, just having visibility of great women’s hockey players to be able to show the young generation that there is more after college. To be able to take that next step and just have someone to look up to.

Reporter:

Who had to comp more tickets: Taylor or Abby?

TAYLOR GIRARD:

Who had to what?

Reporter:

Who had to comp more tickets, who had more family and friends come out?

TAYLOR GIRARD:

I don’t think we even talked about it, so-

ABBY ROQUE:

I didn’t- I just, I like didn’t even tell them they could get- I was like, “You gotta buy your tickets if you’re coming. I can’t keep track of this.”

TAYLOR GIRARD:

Same.

ABBY ROQUE:

So-

TAYLOR GIRARD:

I was like, “we don’t even get any.”

ABBY ROQUE:

I was like, “You guys gotta figure it out.” But I have a lot of people for sure waiting upstairs. So it’ll be nice to see them.

TAYLOR GIRARD:

Yeah, for sure.

Off-screen staff member of some kind:

Any final questions here?

Reporter:

Well, Josh, I guess talk about the team here. You know, a couple weeks left, tough game against Minnesota, [???], but there’s still time left. How do you think the team’s gonna finish out?

JOSH SCIBA:

Yeah, well I think tonight was another good effort by our team. You know, we needed 3 points, for sure, but I think we’re just trying to take it a day at a time. Game at a time, day at a time. You know? Continue to try and get better. You know, I think our group’s feeling pretty good right now after the last two games, for sure. I thought we played a really connected game tonight. You know, had some really good individual performances, but I think collectively as a team? This is how we want to play. Right? We want to play this type of hockey and I thought we played with a lot of confidence and I think if we continue to do that we’re gonna start to earn more points as we go here. But we’re just gonna take it a day at a time. And I think that’s our players’ mission, that’s our goal, that’s all we’re focused on. So our next stop’s Toronto and try to take 3 points there.

[Interview wraps up and the video ends.]

#pwhl #new york sirens #josh sciba #taylor girard #abby roque #pwhl transcriptions #Youtube

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homestuckreplay · 2 days ago

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these trolls are so sburbcel skaiapilled

(page 1589-1590)

HOMESTUCK TODAY!! UPDATE! HEY GUYS WE HAVE HOMESTUCK TODAY!!!!

After five long, silent days we are SO BACK with two troll conversations. I love seeing new combinations of characters talk because I get to see their color combinations on the page – Dave and GA’s chatlog looks like a Christmas wreath, while the purple and brown of Rose and AT’s actually look good together in an eccentric waistcoat sort of way.

These conversations are both REALLY good! They’re sequels to the ones on pages 1093 (Rose-GA) and 1099 (Dave-AT), and together form a complex network of character interactions where everybody is trying to carefully calculate their behavior while refusing to be sincere or honest, and everyone has a different idea of everyone else’s motivations.

In Rose and GA’s previous conversation, Rose impressed GA by being able to understand temporal mechanics better than the other kids, and they agreed to be friends. Today GA messages Dave, asking for insight into Rose’s feelings, mentioning ‘Human Courtship’ and their hope to extend a relationship with Rose ‘Beyond The Context Of A Short Lived And Lackluster Trolling Effort’ (p.1589). They attempt to practice ‘Human Sarcasm’, but struggle with making it clear when they are and aren’t being sarcastic.

I love how the trolls type, and have clear voices in my head for all four of them so far, but I think GA is my current favorite? I only wish I had diction this good. There’s still little to no information on why these trolls are trolling the kids, but whatever it is, GA is clearly far more interested in flirting with Rose and I get it. who doesn’t want to date an alien? I think GA’s natural demeanor, where they’re formal and sincere but their words are so alien it sometimes seems like they’re being ironic, is a much better challenge and complement to Rose than GA trying to change themself. It is pretty funny that Dave’s advice basically boils down to ‘actually, the thing you were already doing is the way to Rose’s heart’ and he is absolutely right. Rose needs someone who’s just a little antagonistic and keeps her on her toes.

Sadly I think Dave has a complete lack of social awareness, claiming that ‘i command [rose] alright i am like the pimpmaster hustledaddy of all snippy bookshrews’ and that ‘she is so in my grill’ and EVEN that he himself is ‘really smooth and inherently likeable’ (p.1589). First off, Dave sends the first message in more than half of his pesterlogs with Rose, and the only time she’s really ‘in his grill’ is when she wants to play Sburb (not flirting, literally just a gamer) – I can’t find a single message from her to Dave that reads like flirting. More broadly, I think Dave is bad at reading the room and knowing how people in his life feel about him, and has a very skewed view of his relationships with his friends and bro.

I don’t think Dave has any actual interest in Rose, shown pretty clearly when he’s willing to help GA court Rose; he’s just been raised with these macho ideals of being ‘above’ women and being so cool and detached and irresistible to them, and he recreates that uncritically. There’s an obvious question about how much Dave believes in his own coolness and how much he’s just masking insecurities, and my read is that it’s somewhere in the middle: being ‘cool’ and ‘ironic’ and a ‘bro’ isn’t something Dave actively thinks about, it’s just so ingrained in him that saying these things is a way for him to avoid introspection. If he never questions these beliefs, he doesn’t have to face the idea that he might actually be a complex person – that’s why, even after admitting to being uncomfortable with his brother’s puppets (p.419) and to getting his ass kicked by his bro (p.1071), he quickly reverts to his old ways. Which is interesting, because he clearly likes to think that his irony is a carefully constructed thing and a skill he’s developed, but I currently read Dave as acting on instinct and impulse 95% of the time.

Rose and AT’s conversation begins SO strong when she pretends to not know who Dave is. She also gives her own psychological insights on him, positioning herself as an outside observer on his behavior such as a ‘psychiatric professional’ or ‘zookeeper’, a fascinating way to deny the fact that the two of them influence each other as people through a reciprocal friendship. Right now I think Rose is more aware than Dave is that she’s putting on an affectation, but she’s just as bought into it – she just sees herself as capable of constructing her own personality and thinking on a higher level than her friends can.

The references to Dave’s metaphorical/literal goat are a fun callback to Dave’s introduction, where he ‘will however contemplate bleating like a goat for IRONICALLY HUMOROUS purposes at a later date’ (p.316), already called back to once on page 566. No deep meaning here that I can see but the idea of Dave having a sort of Schrodinger’s goat whose existence is disputed is pretty funny. He’s already dealing with those birds, and now a goat on top of that????

Like Dave’s to GA, Rose’s advice to AT is actually good, though she’s trying to make fun of them by mentioning their ‘obvious cunning with words’ (p.1590). When Rose spouted puppet poetry to Dave he did not enjoy it (p.522), and AT leaning into their ineptness at trolling and writing will probably make Dave angry that the trolling is being done ‘wrong’, pissing him off more than an actually dope rhyme. That being said, Dave and AT’s first conversation (p.1099) is one of the few Homestuck pages that I don’t enjoy – though I’ve seen people on the forums cite it as a favorite – so I am not looking forward to how this resolves. (Rose and GA, on the other hand? cannot fucking wait <3)

AT is unpleasant and misguided in the same ways Dave is – they’ve both been around people who have pressured them to act tough, but it’s not really their instinct, so they get in over their head and flounder. They’re mean and uncharismatic at the same time, which makes them seem worse than someone who is mean and charismatic (which I expect some of the trolls will be), although really they are equally harmful. Most of AT’s messages are annoying to read, intentionally obtuse and poorly phrased, but not actively cruel. It’s the end of this conversation that really makes AT looks bad, when they say ‘tHANKS FOR YOUR HELP, bUT I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP,’ and then block Rose accidentally and without cause. (Her response of mimicking their typing style is a perfect ending to the page, though).

I think the Rose-Dave-GA-AT dynamic is trying to ask ‘who is doing the trolling, and who is being trolled?’. Because Dave is a troll; he presents Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff and his blogs as sincere endeavors, despite not seeing them that way, and GA denounces the trolls’ efforts in their first conversation with Rose (p.1093). I guess that fundamentally, ‘being trolled’ is an experience, and someone is only a ‘troll’ if you only know them through their trolling. As soon as someone has any kind of interiority they stop being a troll, and become a person who sometimes trolls. And with the exception of the first Jade-CG conversation (p.859), these trolls betray way too much personality in their trolling efforts to truly be trolls.

Finally, there’s one feature in these conversations that I think is really important. GA refers to Rose as ‘The Seer’ and Dave as ‘The Knight’, and also mentions ‘The Ultimate Riddle’. AT also refers to Dave as ‘THE KNIGHT,’ despite knowing his name. In GC’s conversations with Rose (p.1524) and John (p.1579-80), they use the kids’ names but also discuss the Medium, exiles, time loops, and LOWAS. GC is trying to mess with things, but GA and AT seem fully bought into the Skaian ideology, and have perhaps been in the Medium for so long and influenced by their exile commands so much that they’ve stopped questioning anything regarding Skaia. Which feels very much like a cautionary tale and a fate to be avoided – as cool as all the fantasy lore is, the kids will lose their way if they get too caught up in it.

#homestuck #reaction #what a joy to have two pesterlogs! i love pesterlogs they are always so rich for analysis!#and have so many opportunities for rethinking/refining my thoughts on various characters :D especially when they interact in new combinatio #s!#and there are still eight trolls to introduce and so many more possible dynamics to happen! this is SO fun!#chrono

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forthegothicheroine · 10 hours ago

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Now on Archive of Our Own

John,

I hope the heat has died down with me gone. English Arthur (I still call him that in my mind, though not to his face) lied to everyone and said I was some sort of rich oilman’s son, and you’d never believe how fast everyone bought it. Micah ought to half-murder some more aristocrats for me to save and leave grateful, I guess.

I’ve tried to write this letter over and over, and that paragraph is the only one I’ve been able to keep. I don’t know how to say the rest of it, but I have to say it to someone in the old gang. I understand Dutch, now. There was a girl named Lucy, and I loved her more than I thought a man could love. I wish you could have met her, even once. She was kind and honest and of course she was beautiful- god, she was beautiful- but most important of all, the moment her mother wasn’t watching, she would sparkle like the stars and make you laugh and smile along with her.

Still don’t know how to say this part. A man hurt her, real bad. She couldn’t speak about it until it was too late, her mother made it so clear that she was never to worry anyone. Until you saw that woman smile, you’d never know how awful it was to see her fall apart. When I knew the truth, I could have slit my own throat for my failing to protect her. Big dangerous outlaw Quincey Morris, and I couldn’t even save the woman I loved from a devil who attacked her.

She’s dead now. The devil wouldn’t let her escape him, in the end. Hold Abigail tight and never let her go, because you don’t know how that can kill you while you’re still alive.

I don’t know if you’ll ever see me again. I’m hunting that bastard down, and he’s got money and power- you wouldn’t believe the kind of power- and I won’t kid myself that I can walk away from this. All of you with me, maybe I could have, but the friends I made in England are good and clever people but they aren’t killers. At least, they weren’t killers until very recently. That monster hurt another woman, and her husband went crazier than a man in a fever, but maybe that’s what his wife needs.

I don’t even know if I want to live. I just know that I can’t die until I’ve finished what I need to do.

For context, THE DEAD WALK! Sorry, I should have started with that, but I figured you’d think my whole letter was a joke. It ain’t. The dead walk, and they hunger for the living. If you get bitten, you get infected, but it’s not too late so long as you know about it, and you can be restrained from biting anyone else until it’s taken care of. I’ve attached a document written up by my friend Professor Van Helsing, and it has all the details of how it works. Please read it in case it ever starts happening in America!

Quincey Morris

---

“God damn it,” John muttered.

Everything after the words “For context” was totally unreadable, soaked through by the mud where the pages had fallen. This was the last time the gang ever let Bill pick up the mail. Maybe it was just as well, that first page was already so frightening.

If Dracula takes place some time in the late 1880s or early 1890s (a few years before it's published as a book), and if, as an outlaw, Quincey Morris was at all affiliated with the Red Dead Redemption 2 cast around the turn of the decade, he could have sent Arthur Morgan a letter saying "VAMPIRES AND STUFF EXIST!" Sadly, nobody took this letter seriously, leaving John Marston unprepared for Undead Nightmare.

#quincey morris #red dead redemption 2 #undead nightmare #red dead redemption #dracula

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buttered-toasty · 2 months ago

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This image is endlessly delightful to me. The first instinct is to say, as my friend put it, he has handfuls. But waist is lower down. Tits are a smidge higher up. Celebrimbor you have handfuls mostly of ribcage. Also he is yapping as if this is a normal part of conversation. Annatar looks like the colony rats in his lab just developed new, never before seen behaviors. If I walked into a room and saw this I would audibly say “that’s enough of this room for today” and turn around and walk back out. Clearly I am interrupting something, though what that something is is anyone’s guess.

Also there is obviously something queer going on here but it doesn’t even matter. We have transcended the use of queer in reference to sexuality and gone back to its original meaning. They are so fucking strange.

Goes without saying this image has boundless template potential and I WILL be doing this to my OCs

#this has got to be up there with the super lesbian image for me #like this is so funny. idk. what is it #insert eggman what the Fuck are you two talking about image here #it is just so silly special to me. is this autistic flirting. is this truly an everyday conversation.#I don’t know the context and I don’t wish to #I’m sure someone will tell me anyways but I will do my best to ignore it because whatever I am imagining #is probably funnier than the real thing anyway #my art #described in alt text #silmarillion #silm art #silvergifting #annatar #celebrimbor #I don’t even know if it makes sense to the rest of u all how funny this image is to me but I’m having a grand time #we do not mention I forgot Annatar’s freckles. I will use my imagination #I am not getting up to fix it I am cozy in bed #this is quickly becoming one of my own The Posts Ever to me oh my god #just like my flanker post smh

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thatskindarough · 11 days ago

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I don’t have a title for this one

#good omens #art #illustration #my art #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #good omens fanart #I can’t draw wings #I wish I could give you context #I cannot #tumblr is out here butchering the quality of my 21x9 aspect ratio #jk tumblr I know it’s me I need to start exporting them at smaller sizes #I still don’t forgive you tumblr

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inkyrainstorms · 1 month ago

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Martian Stan AU - Aftermath & Discovery

The Beginning (1), Aftermath (2) (here), The Journals (3)

Extra! (The Apology)

Ford didn’t know how long it took for him to pry himself off the floor, but it felt like hours later when he managed to trudge his way upstairs, eyes burning and throat raw. There was new blood on his knuckles, and Ford couldn’t remember if it was Stan’s or his own. He’d tried to scrub the blood off of the portal, but most of it had been too high and Ford was so tired.

He couldn’t fall asleep in the basement, he chanted to himself, again and again and again and it only occurred to him once he stood swaying at the top the of the stairs, that is didn’t actually… matter, anymore.

It didn’t matter what Bill did, or didn’t do.

The portal was broken beyond repair. His brother was dead.

The journal is gone. his mind whispered insidiously, and he couldn’t remember if he’d always been so cruel to himself, or if it was a byproduct of Bill. You got what you wanted, Sixer. How does it feel?

Ford hobbled to the bathroom as fast as he could manage, and hurled his guts out into the toilet. When all that came up was acrid bile, though, and Ford wondered idly when we he last ate. It didn’t matter.

None of it mattered, Ford decided firmly, hands clenched on either side of the porcelain bowl so hard that they looked bloodless in the harsh white light. It didn’t matter what he felt, or didn’t feel.

Not anymore.

The journal was gone. That was a good thing, it meant that the portal could never be rebuilt again. Stanley made an honorable… he. He’d made an honorable sacrifi—

Ford hunched over the toilet and heaved again. Nothing came out.

Impossibly, time kept moving.

Ford was left drifting in the current, from room to room, machine to first aid kit to paper to specimen to paper to circling the door of his lab again and again like an anxious sentry. He didn’t process any of it, and eventually, the door was the only thing left in the house that felt truly real. It was the only mystery left that Ford could pay any real mind to, and most of the time he wanted nothing more than burn the whole thing to the ground.

Sitting against the door, head leaned back and staring at the ceiling, Ford searched his mind for something. Anything.

A plan, a goal, fuck, he’d take the will to actually get out of the house and get groceries despite the constant chance of being watched at this rate. There was near nothing left to eat in the cabinets that wasn’t rank with age, and Ford knew he was wasting away like this.

But there was nothing. No part of him cared.

He knew he’d always had the wildest aspirations as a kid and as a young man, that he’d never stop reaching for bigger and better heights, but the light had blinded him with its promise, and now he’d fallen. He’d fallen so far.

He’d said Icarus didn’t flap hard enough, when Fiddleford tried to warn him of his own hubris all those weeks ago. Now he was just glad he wasn’t an English major, because it had taken him all of this just to realize that Icarus had found the sun, been embraced by the promise of warmth, and burned for it.

Trust no one.

Ford traced an idle finger against the freshly bandaged burn on the underside of his hand.

And no one should ever trust you.

…

The worst part, Ford thought to himself as he brewed another pot of coffee and searched for a clean mug, was the uncertainty of it all. There was a grief in loss, of course, but not knowing could be so much worse.

Stanley could still be alive out there, among the creatures of the Nightmare Realm, all alone. He could be dying. He could be dead. He could be sitting on the other side, waiting, hoping Ford could open the portal and bring him home—

Ford slammed down the sole clean coffee cup he had left hard enough to startle himself, and then sighed.

He’d have to go clean up the remains of the portal, eventually. Before he fell asleep and Bill…

Ford poured out the coffee and leaned heavily against the counter as he took a sharp swig. It burned the whole way down.

What did he have left that Bill wanted? What reason did Bill have to keep him around if his research was beyond saving, if he couldn’t be threatened or tortured into complying anymore?

The next time he fell asleep…

Ford didn’t know what’d happen to him, and despite everything, damnit, Ford didn’t want to die. He couldn’t let Bill win, couldn’t become another footnote in the history of the world because he was just another one of the poor schmucks who fell for Bill Cipher’s lies.

Taking another gulp of liquid courage, Ford pulled his coat tight around himself and marched to the door of his lab before he could talk himself out of it.

Forget not sleeping in the lab. Ford couldn’t sleep at all until he found a way to sever Bill from his mind for good. Project Mentem had been a bust last he’d checked, but it was worth another shot. What else hadn’t he tried? There was something… a protection spell? A charm?

Ford contemplated his options all the way down the stairs, one hand keeping him steady on the wall while the other held his mug.

He still wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted yet, or what his next step was, but Ford could do this. He just had to secure his mind, like he’d planned, and then get rid of the blasted portal once and for all. Nothing had changed.

Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed. Nothing, nothing, except that Ford felt hollow where there must’ve once been something warm and vital in his chest. He didn’t know if he’d ever feel warm again. He didn’t deserve to.

Ford remembered a detail about sleep deprivation, as the elevator neared the basement level again and his heart dropped in time with the doors hissing open. Hallucinations were a common byproduct of the resulting sensory overload and exhaustion. They could take auditory or visual form, though visual hallucinations were a more common symptom by over 52%.

That was the only explanation he could conjure for the faint singing that echoed through the dark, cavernous sub-level before him.

“It’s not real,” Ford whispered to himself, hands a vice around the coffee mug. He felt cold. “Auditory hallucinations are an expected and well documented symptom to experience in conditions less dire than these. Focus on your intellect, Stanford. Focus, focus, it is not real.”

For a long stretch of time, seconds, or perhaps minutes, Fords feet were glued to the floor of the elevator. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what he said or did, the singing, or the static, remained steady and quiet.

It wouldn’t go away unless Ford made it.

Finally, Ford forced himself to creep into the basement, and then the control room to set his mug down on the desk. The music was louder now, more distinct here than it had been before. Had Ford left a radio on down here? Was that it?

Holding his breath, Ford crept around the trashed room, checking behind spare sheets of metal that had been propped up against the walls, kneeling to look under the control panels, and then behind them too. All the while, the music droned on, buzzing and humming and settling under his skin like an itch.

-any- wind blows—

It got louder as he neared the very back of the room, the words filtering through the humming static and becoming clear. Ford couldn’t deny it anymore. That was a voice. He shivered hard, jolting like ice had been pressed to the back of his neck, and hurried forward.

-really matter to me… To me.

There was a pile of debris, in the back of the control room, farthest from the door where he’d entered. Stanley must’ve crashed into it, when Ford and him had been… when he’d…

-just killed a man —a gun against his head…

Ford slowed his pace, staring down at the dented metal plates and machinery that had fallen loose in a heap on the floor, the stray wires and screws jutting out of the mess every which way. Slowly, Ford sank to his knees and pressed his aching palms onto the cool floor beneath him.

He could hear the singing now. Warbling, staticky. Familiar.

-Life had just begun, and now I’ve gone and thrown it all away.

Ford choked on his next inhale, thin and trembly as it was, and searched through the wreckage with wide eyes.

There. Nestled between a dented panel with half its screws undone, and a jumble of wires and smaller panels of sheet metal, was the source of the sound.

For a long, long moment, all Ford did was stare.

Oh mama… oh ohh oh. Didn’t mean to make you cry.

If I’m not back again this time tomorrow…

Ford’s hands trembled as he reached out, carefully prying the radio out of the scrap heap and holding it up in the dim light.

Carry on, carry on…

As if nothing really matters…

The voice faded out. Static.

Ford set the radio down on his lap, gently, as it would shatter into a million pieces otherwise, and pressed a trembling hand to his mouth.

“Stanley?” Ford choked out, and it was like trying to breathe glass. But he had to know, he had to, because— because…

He sat there, dully staring down at the radio Fiddleford had cobbled together months ago, when they’d still been in the implementations stage of the data and blueprints they’d collected, when the preliminary tests had begun. A device to send and collect waves and other information from beyond this dimension without actually opening a rift.

And here it was. In Fords hands, dented and scratched and still whole despite everything. Ford had turned his sights completely to the portal before the it’s completion, since Bill had deemed the entire endeavor a waste of time and energy and an ineffective outlet for his genius.

Fiddleford must’ve completed it, back when he was still just as enthralled in the project as Ford was. He missed his old friend, but Fiddleford was likely back home by now, in California to try and reconnect with his wife and child. As bitter as Ford was, he hoped Fiddleford was successful. His old friend deserved as much and more.

There was no reply to Ford’s question, except, Ford brought the radio to his ear and strained to listen through the faint static. Was that… humming?

Doo- doo doo, yeah, no poindexter, I‘m done, man. That’s the last song of the evening, I’m not paid for overtime.

Moses, wish I were getting paid for this.

Ford jumped, wincing at the sudden burst of noise loud enough to make his ears ring, then processed what Stanley, because that had to be Stanley, had said.

“Stanley! Where are you? Are you in the Nightmare Realm? You must be… what sort of method did you find to transmit your signal? Are you al—“

But Stanley continued speaking as though he hadn’t heard him. A thrill of irritation went through him. Was Stanley ignoring him? Was this some kind of petty revenge tactic?

When’d that song come out anyway? ‘75?

He hummed.

Sounds about right.

Ford shook the radio and bit back a growl, before he remembered that the technology in his hands was damaged and sorely in need of a repair and upgrade, and loosened his grip again. He set it down in his lap.

“Stanley, I need you to take this seriously, please, for once.”

Wow, that song was everywhere back then, wasn’t it? I remember thinkin’ Ford probably liked it when it came out, wherever he was. The nerd was probably in college.

“Stanley?” he tried again, but he wasn’t expecting a reply anymore. Stanley soldiered on, rambling about everything and nothing and Ford could almost hear the smile in his voice if it didn’t sound so tired.

Hell, where’d I first hear it? Must’ve been over at a gas station in… eh, Kansas? Somewhere over there, the big ol’ middle states.

We sure aren’t in Kansas anymore.

Ahh, those were the times. Me, the open sky, and so, so much dirt in my hair. Seriously, where did the dirt come from. I roll around in one haystack and suddenly i’m fishing filth out of my hair a month later.

Stanley went quiet again, before he laughed.

Aw man, I actually like this story. Buckle in folks, and I’m taking us back to that weirdly cold summer day in Kansas, where I had to steal 5 prized chickens. For some reason.

Look man, when someone pays you a hundred bucks and tells you he wants chickens, you don’t ask questions.

Anyways, I’d been-“

For the past few… well, it had to have been days since Stanley fell through the portal by this point, if Fords state was anything to go off of, Ford’s mind had been eerily blank. He’d been a hollowed out shell of his former self, a ghost in his home and life that held onto the living plane by only the barest threads and pure spite.

It was like a switch had flipped. Ford’s fingers drummed on the outside of the radio as he forced himself to his feet, mind whirling at a hundred miles per hour and making calculations and theories and discarding some and contemplating others, and he was nearly jittering as he walked out of the control room entirely. He’d need to find a way to secure this side of the portal from Bills influence, recollect his journals, and then, he was bringing his brother home.

He stopped just before he got into the elevator and turned around to stare down the wrecked portal that loomed overhead. The once perfect inverted triangle, now ruined and warped nearly beyond recognition.

He grinned in a way that was more just like baring his teeth.

“You may be a god, Cipher, and you may think you can control me, but never forget. I am a scientist.”

The portal stood dead as it had been, but Ford didn’t care. He whirled around and stalked into the elevator. He felt more awake than he had in days. And he had research to collect and a demon to banish.

Stanley was still talking, as the elevator began to shudder and rise, and Ford’s adrenaline shot began to ever-so-slightly wane. Something about… attack pigeons?

-And when I finally think I’m in the clear, I duck around one of the hay bales and come face to face with, and I’m not kidding here, a cow wearing heavy duty armor, like a helmet and shit the guy in ‘Nam would wear. It even had holes for the ears!

There was a strange sound then, and Ford realized with a start that it was coming from him. He was laughing. It wasn’t even than funny, really, but something about Stan delivery made Ford wheeze.

When was the last time he’d laughed? It must’ve been before this whole thing started, when he’d been with Fiddleford or B—

The laughter died in his throat. Oblivious to Fords inner turmoil, Stan kept on jabbering.

And there I was, 5 chickens smuggled into my coat and in my bag —and if you’ve never tried to carry 5 chickens, never do, it’s hard as hell and not worth it at all— staring down ol’ Bessie.

And then, because this fucking farm couldn’t get any weirder, the cow started moo-ing like it was setting off a tornado siren, and all the other cows in the whole place started mooing in sync too. It was fucking terrifying man.

They must’ve been calling the attack pigeons, because those suckers came back, and they started dive-bombing my sorry ass, and really, that was when I reached my limit.

I dove into the hay bale like a damn football player going for the end line, and even though it was by far the itchiest thing to ever happen to me, it saved me from death-by pecking so I’ll take take it.

The itchiest, of course, save for my stint in Albuquerque.

Ford could almost imagine Stan shaking his head as he paused again. With a start, he realized he was still smiling.

Just. Don’t try selling pillows in Albuquerque is all I’ll say.

Stan gave an audible shudder.

So many feathers… And itch powder. The itch powder didn’t help.

Ford couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped out of him at that.

Tags! (I’m sure I’m forgetting someone, pls tell me if you want to be on the list! Or just follow the tag that also works) @aroace-get-out-of-my-face @pleasantartisanhottea @littlelilliana15 @empressofsamoyeds @pinesfamilycatsau

Super Epic Secret Surprise!

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