#this was supposed to have a companion piece but

[queenie-ofthe-void]

A Very Hopper Holidays

Hopper POV || wc: 3.7k || tags: smoking, recreational drugs, grouchy old men dealing with their feelings, smart-ass Eddie Munson, meet-cute Steddie, Steve and Max siblings, El thinks Steve is cute (so does Eddie), emotionally available Wayne Munson gives the best advice, holiday fluff, found family

This is a companion piece to my fic The Babysitter Chronicles, but can be read separately!

Brief background: Wayne patched Steve up after his fight with Billy in s2

Hopper’s freezing his goddamn balls off out here, waiting on the front stoop in the dark, banging his fist on the door. There’s no answer, but the lights are all on and it’s dinnertime on Christmas Eve. So someone’s fucking home, and the sooner they answer the sooner he can leave.

“Dammit, Wayne. Open the door so I can give you a damn present, or next time I pick up your nephew maybe I throw him in jail for the night instead of bringing him home.”

Sure enough, the door flies open, but it’s not Wayne on the other side. The kid’s standing there, layered in enough flannel shirts and sweatpants to dress all of El’s shithead friends with some left over. Hopper watches as he drags the sleeve of an oversized black flannel across his red and dripping nose, shifting uncomfortably and eyes darting side to side.

“Munson,” Hopper crosses his arms, “where the hell’s your uncle?”

Even bundled up like a little kid, he still tries to make himself bigger, taller, meaner, like he always does when Hopper picks him up. “Not here.” The tone is flat, devoid of Munson’s usual snark as a particularly intense gust of wind slams the screen door open against the side of the trailer.

“It’s Christmas eve, what do you mean he’s not here?”

“He’s working.”

Hopper scoffs. “You’re telling me your uncle works Christmas eve?”

Munson scoffs back at him, a dramatic mockery of Hopper’s own tone. “We’re Jewish, asshole.”

Well, shit.

He doesn’t have time for the kid’s hardass act. All he wanted to do was drop off a simple thank you and also merry christmas but now probably happy hanukkah gift and be on his way to his own family. He can only hope El spares him a bit of holiday mercy for making her wait.��

“Look kid, can I just come in?” He takes another step up, only for Munson to block his path.

His eyes grate across Hopper’s jacket, noting the star on the chest. “No cops in the trailer.” 

A low grumble forces its way up Hopper’s throat which breaks into a frustrated groan when another gust of wind scrapes the exposed skin on his cheeks. He stamps his feet on the stairs hoping it’ll keep the blood flow going to his toes as they start to tingle. Munson’s wrapped his hands up inside the sleeves of what’s most likely one of Wayne’s old jackets.

“Look,” Eddie starts, sniffling another drip back inside his nose, “if you could just–”

But Hopper cuts him off with a deranged laugh, head thrown back in dismay at this entire situation. “No, you look here. You’re going to listen to exactly what I have to say.”

Eddie’s taken a step back, and yeah, Hopper supposes he’s never seen the Chief of Police actually freak out before. But it’s been a long day of wellness checks and stove fires, and Eddie’s the only thing standing between him and a night of kid’s Christmas movies and spiked eggnog.

So he pushes forward, spurred on by the kid’s once-in-a-lifetime stunned silence. “Now it’s clear that Wayne’s working nights, probably earning holiday hours to pay for the radiator which is pretty obviously busted, given the ten to twenty shirts you’re wearing. Meaning you’re alone, in a tin box with a tiny space heater that’s so old it’s a fire hazard shoved into the corner of your room.” The Chief walks up the stairs, standing on the step just before the door so he’s towering over Eddie, who shrinks in on himself just a bit. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Munson.” Hopper ticks off each gloved finger as his list of demands grows, Eddie’s growing wider in time. “You’re going to let me inside so I can piss and blow my nose, since I’ve been standing out here for too fucking long. You’re going to pack a bag, you’re going to call your uncle, and you’re going to tell him you’re staying with me for the night.”

Eddie stammers, mouth flapping around words he can’t find fast enough. It doesn’t matter, because Hopper’s on a roll now.

“Then,” he steamrolls Eddie again, pushing his way into the trailer, closing the door as Eddie stumbles backwards down onto the couch, “you’re going to eat my food, you’re going to watch our movies, you’re going to smile when we smile and laugh when we laugh because even if you’re Jewish you can still have a damn good fucking Christmas eve!”

He’s sick and tired of stupid teenage boys trying to be something they aren’t, like they’re manly or tough or strong for barely surviving on their own, practically raising themselves. And the best way Hopper can drill that into their thick skulls is to get them to shut the fuck up and feed them.

The silence lingers on the frost coating the inside of the windows and the crust of dried snot on Eddie’s sleeve. The kid’s avoiding eye contact, like Hopper will just leave if he’s ignored. But if Hopper can outlast guards in the POW camp, and a little girl who hates green beans, then he can sure as hell outlast Eddie goddamn Munson. So Hopper waits. And waits. 

It pays off, like he knew it would. The kid gets up, storms towards one end of the trailer. Hopper slowly follows down the narrow hallway and sees Eddie viciously shoving rumpled clothes into a backpack, mumbling about pigs and asshole cops. 

After all’s said and done, they’re pulling up to the cabin about twenty minutes later. The front door opens with a bang in greeting, causing Eddie to jump out of his skin. But when they step through the now open door into the warmth of the living room, there’s no one there to greet them.

Ah, so she’s a little upset.

El’s door is closed, like it’s not supposed to be. Light shines out from underneath, and he can hear soft voices inside. The whispers are abruptly hushed when he knocks on her door. “El, honey, I need you to open the door. Six inches, remember?” Hopper tries turning the handle but it doesn’t budge. Honestly he can’t help but wonder why he bothered to install a door with no lock when she’s got superpowers– that’s on him, he supposes. 

He turns around to find Munson standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room. “Take your jacket off, put your shit down, and stay a while, will ya?” Hopper laughs at Eddie’s incredulous expression, eyebrows scrunched together and lips pursed tight. 

“Ok,” Eddie drags the sound out in question as he sets his pack next to the couch, “who opened the fucking door?”

“Hey, language!" Hopper calls, Max’s voice echoing his own.

Eddie startles, head whipping between Hopper’s no-doubt exasperated expression and El’s still-closed bedroom door. He drags his hands down his face and sighs as her mimicry sends the girls into a fit of giggles. He hasn’t decided yet if Max is a good influence on El, even if Hopper knows it’s not himself she’s mocking.

He hears the creak of the bathroom door opening as Steve walks back into the living room. Hopper can’t help but turn to watch the show, the two boys coming face to face. 

Munson’s oversized black and red flannel covers the ripped sleeves of whatever tattered, black band t-shirt he’s wearing. Which would be on par with what he normally looks like, except it’s contrasted against bright blue, wool pajama pants with little white snowflakes on them. When Hopper first spotted them at the trailer, a teasing smirk on his face, Munson only rolled his eyes and argued they were the warmest clean pair he had.

Harrington, on the other hand, has lived his entire life in locker rooms and an empty house. Which means that he once again forgot to bring a shirt to change into after his shower. It's not normally a problem-- except when El catches him, a blush lighting up her face like a goddamn Christmas tree, accompanied by incessant giggles that make Hopper want to drown himself.

What is a problem is Munson’s shameless gawking, mouth wide enough to catch a whole swarm of flies. His blush puts El's to shame, red blotches burst across his neck like hives. Hopper can practically see the steam rolling out of the guy’s ears, hearts popping out of his eyes as he just stares and stares his fill, completely unaware that Hopper’s still standing less than five feet from him.

Thankfully, so far Steve is none the wiser. He’s got a cotton swab in his ear, head tipped down as he double-knots his Tigersharks swim team sweatpants. Hopper notices they hang baggy and loose around his hips. Another shitty reminder of how much weight the kid’s lost since getting kicked off the team because of his ‘incident’ with Hargrove. He wonders about the last time the kid ate a decent meal, and pushes down the rising anger at the most realistic answer, which is not recent enough for his liking. Hopper has the same gnawing concern when he looks back at Munson, dark circles under his eyes, skinny as a bean-pole. 

He’s got to stop taking in strays.

“Harrington, we’ve talked about this.” Hop tries to keep the frustration out of his voice, but if he has to watch El swoon over the kid’s wet hair and bare chest again he’s gonna blow a gasket. “Put a damn shirt on.”

“Oh, yeah sorry, Hop.” Which is the exact moment Steve decides to turn his head. They both catch Munson giving Steve a once over, who then chokes on his own spit when he notices Steve looking back at him. Hopper knows Harrington’s trying to turn over a new leaf, but he also knows the kind of people Richard and Helen Harrington are. So he’s a little surprised when, instead of having to stop a potential hate crime, he notices a similar blush bloom across Steve’s chest– or maybe it’s the heat from the shower. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Muson’s screech is so high it could set dogs howling. Steve flinches at the outburst, and Hopper hopes this little interaction doesn’t trigger another migraine for the kid. He was barely pushing through when Hop picked him up yesterday, but seems to be feeling better today.

“Munson, I need you to tone it down,” Hopper argues. It goes unnoticed.

Steve’s sputtering. He runs a nervous hand through his hair and of-fucking-course Munson gasps, swoons just like El. Harrington’s free hand fumbles for a shirt hem that isn’t there. He realizes he’s half naked and turns into a deer in headlights, hands frantically moving over his chest like he doesn’t know how to hide himself. Unfortunately the unintentional groping sends Munson into a coughing fit. 

“Me? What the hell are you doing here, Munson?”

Munson scoffs, crossing his arms as he backs himself into the wall behind him. “The high and mighty Chief of Police here basically kidnapped me. Forced me to pack a bag and tossed me into his truck.” Ah, there’s the Munson he expected. Except if it wasn’t for how many times Hopper’s hauled the kid in, he might not have noticed the nervous energy in Eddie’s twitchy fingers and shifty eyes. “He failed to mention–” he waves around at everything until Munson’s wild gesturing lands on a half-naked, sweats hung low, hair slicked back, barefoot Steve Harrington.

The squeal of El’s door opening behind him propels Hopper full-speed into the living room towards Steve’s duffle. He pulls out the first shirt he manages to find. It hits Steve in the face, and they both breathe a sigh of relief when he pulls it on.

“Aww,” El complains, before her eyes grow ten sizes too big when she catches Hopper glaring back at her. 

“Who the hell is this guy?” Max asks. She makes her way toward the kitchen, dragging El with her to help pull out dishes and cups. 

“Apparently another kidnapping victim.” Steve huffs, annoyed, before making his way over to the girls. “Munson, get over here and help me set the food out.”

Steve doesn’t even look up from where he’s pulling a large cast iron out of the oven, so he misses the absolutely priceless distress scrawled into Eddie’s bulging eyes and flapping hands. Looking back and forth between Harrington and Hopper, Eddie points to himself in confusion as if Steve hadn’t asked him by name. Hopper can only chuckle at the kid’s antics. He rolls his eyes and tilts his head toward the kitchen so Munson finally gets the jist, moving across the cabin in double-time. 

It’s a more intense Christmas dinner than Hopper was hoping for, but after introductions and a full stomach, everyone’s relaxed a bit. El and Max curl up on the couch next to him, snuggled under the same blanket surrounded by bowls of popcorn and half eaten bags of candy. The boys, finally over whatever awkward tension laced between them earlier, are sitting rather comfortably next to each other, poking fun at the cliche holiday movies that Hopper secretly enjoys.

Well after the girls are tucked in and the boys have set up a mess of sleeping bags and blankets on the living room floor, Hopper moves quiet as a mouse across the trailer to Eddie’s duffle. After a quick search, he pulls a joint from a hidden zipper pocket hand-sewn inside the lining.

Kid must think he’s so smart, like he’s the first guy to ever sell drugs.

Hopper deserves a little treat after all the shit he’s been through this year. It’s been ages since he’s smoked, and with the boys here to help watch over the kids, he thinks he can allow himself time to relax for just a little bit. He’s earned it. Plus, it’s not his fault the damned kid decided to try to sneak his stash here. Hop’s not an idiot, even though the boys clearly thought so when they went out for some ‘fresh air’ earlier and came back looking a little less fresh than when they left.

So he brushes the snow off of his favorite lawn chair, wraps himself up in a tattered old blanket, and lights up in the cold, winter air. 

Hop loved smoking in high school, so he takes a long inhale, reveling in the burn heating his chest. Unfortunately, Hopper hasn’t been a teenager in a long, long time. His coughing fit is loud enough to wake his non-existent neighbors. But when he can finally breathe fresh air again, there’s no noise to be heard from inside.

He goes slower this time, tugging on little puffs as he watches the snow fall between the pine trees. It’s quiet, a good quiet, filled with the rustling of rabbits in the brush and bugs singing in the night. Even the joint is absolute shit, like most of Munson’s wares. It’s still enough for him to relax, to appreciate what unfortunate circumstances have gifted him, and keep him from dwelling on what he’s lost. 

Less than an hour’s passed when a pair of headlights shine down the drive. Wayne steps out of his beat-up truck, in only slightly better condition than Eddie’s van, and makes his way over. Without a word, Hopper gets up and grabs another folding chair propped against the end-railing and sets it next to his own.

The joint’s gone by now, but Hopper pulls out a pack of smokes and offers one to Wayne, who silently takes it with just a slight nod of his head in thanks. Out of the corner of his eye, Hopper notices Wayne’s worn-down work boots have a gash at the front, exposing the hard steel underneath the suede. He’s wearing a large, thick flannel that looks exactly like the one Eddie was wearing when Hopper found him, and it’s just as oversized on the old man. 

There’s almost nothing similar between Wayne and his nephew. Wayne’s always been a quiet one. A guy who’d make his way to the back of a crowded room, who kept his head down when he knew what was good for him. And Eddie is– is really just something else. Loud, obnoxious, brash, a kid with a well-crafted personality faker than government coverup. Almost one of a kind, if Hopper didn’t happen to know another boy just like him.

Wayne clears his throat, stubs out the bud with his boot in a little pile of snow. “Got a note from my foreman saying you kidnapped my boy.” His tone is gruff, but Hopper catches the small uptick to the man’s chapped lips.

He doesn’t say anything when Hopper heads inside. It takes him a minute to find the wrapped bottle and two glasses. While he meanders around, he checks that the boys are still both snoring away and the girls are sound asleep amidst a pile of stuffed animals.

When he closes the front door behind him, Jim hands the bottle to Wayne and sets the two glasses into the snow between them. Wayne hums in thought, turning the bottle over in his hand. “Macallen single?”

Jim actually croaks, chest light and filled with laughter when he clocks the mirth in Wayne’s teasing eyes. Maybe him and Eddie aren’t so different after all, both having a shithead sense of humor.

“Just Johnny.” Jim wipes a hand down his face like that’ll hide the sincerity in his smile. “You helped patch up my kid, Wayne. You didn’t save the goddamn world.”

The light in Wayne’s eyes dims only slightly. Instead of unwrapping the bottle, he unscrews the lid off the top, ripping the paper off with it, and pours them both half a glass. They silently cheers, even though the air between them has shifted slightly. 

“Thought that boy was a Harrington, not a Hopper.” It should sting, but it doesn’t, because Wayne’s not that type of man. It’s a genuine question, one that Jim’s not sure how to answer. So he keeps silent, hoping Wayne will cave and move on like his kid does when things stay too quiet. But Wayne sits, and sits, and his own gut finally starts to roil. Ah, so that's what it feels like.

“Apparently I’m good at picking up strays.” Jim’s attempt at a joke falls flat between them. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Although, I think I got to Harrington a little too late.”

Wayne takes a decent sip from his glass, smacking his lips together. He peers out into the dark, just beyond the porch railing. But Jim can tell he’s not looking at the woods in front of them or the starry sky overhead. Wayne’s looking at something that’s long behind him.

“Ya know, Harrington didn’t look much different than my boy did when he showed up lookin’ like a dropped sack of peaches. Just a little thing he was; no hair, clothes that didn’t fit. Hell, I’d almost been able to see his ribs if it weren't for the bruises.” Wayne’s looking down at his feet now, scuffing the snow off the bottom of his boots. He downs his glass in one go before pouring himself another. 

“I beat myself up for too long for not doing something sooner. My own nephew, my own brother, livin’ only two towns over, and I had no idea it was that bad. Told m’self over and over that I should’ve known, should’ve helped sooner.” Wayne heaves a heavy sigh before looking up at Jim again. There’s guilt in the crinkles around his eyes, but it’s quickly replaced with resolve. “You might not’ve always been there for the Harrington kid, but that don’t mean he don’t need you now. Maybe more than ever, by the look of him. And if he’s got you watchin’ out for him, maybe he’ll turn out more Hopper than Harrington afterall.”

Jim can’t take the intense eye contact anymore and firmly looks away, finishing his glass and extending it out to Wayne for a refill. It’s quiet, Wayne’s patience sitting on his shoulders like the world’s most uncomfortable blanket. But even blankets that are scratchy as hell can still be warm.

After a while, the silence releases enough tension that he can sit back again, and the two men slowly sip their whiskey and watch dawn break through the trees. Wayne grabs the bottle as he moves to stand and pats Jim’s shoulder a little too hard. The man’s stronger than he looks.

“Why don’t you bring Eddie back yourself a little bit later, give me a chance to fix that radiator. Plus, being around Harrington might be good for him,” he chuckles to himself, hopping into his truck. “Maybe show the boy not every kid who don’t wear all black ain’t a damn conformist suburban yuppie.” Jim laughs, Wayne’s mockery a spot on impression.

All’s still quiet in the cabin, each kid right where he left them. He’s not sure if it’s the joint, the two whiskeys, Wayne’s advice, or just a combination of everything, but there’s a heat behind his eyes he hasn’t had to deal with in a long time. He’s not typically a crier– happy or sad. The only time he’s cried since Sarah was in the elevator shaft, El collapsed in his arms just after closing the gate. And even then, it was only a few stray tears.

Now he’s unspooling wads of toilet paper to blow his damn nose in, crying like a kid who got coal in their stocking. Except this isn’t like when he thought he’d lost El, or when he’d held Sarah’s hand when she took her last breath. Jim Hopper’s happier than he’s been in a long, long time. And after the shit awful year he’s had– that they’ve all had– he lets himself revel in the joy of having a family again.

Gorgeous graphics provided by @steddiecameraroll-graphics

And as always, thank you to @carolperkinsexgirlfriend for telling me "I think your calling might be writing well-meaning, grumpy old men" and also, "you just understand the spirit of The Old Man", but mostly just thank you for being an amazing beta reader <3

[allronix]

In any other universe, I say "This side conscripts children and trains them with deadly weapons. They forbid these children from ever seeing or hearing from their families once recruited in infancy because the organization is their family now. And to defend the government they serve, they allowed themselves to become the overseers and commanders of an army of slave soldiers to suppress internal dissent," we would look at that and think these were the guys we were trying to fight against.

So weirdly, we have the Jedi set up to be these ultimate heroes and good guys, yet they are just soaked in the tropes and trappings that would mark them as the bad side in any other piece of work depicting a dystopia.

The whole Jedi recruiting is Dystopia 101. You want to establish that this is a bad place to live? Establish that the people in charge recruit kids and take them away from their parents. Even as recently as the HP Fantastic Beasts films, Newt's introduction to America's Wizarding World being a dystopian system was when Tina and Queenie pointed out that American mage children born to "No-Maj" (muggles) were taken from their birth families and their muggle relatives and friends mind raped into forgetting them. (One wonders if the Jedi would use this and bullshit some reason about sparing those left behind the pain of loss...). You also get the Babylon Five Psi Corps or the Dragon Age mage towers. Hell, even in Disney canon, one of the things that establishes the First Order as grade A dirtbags is Finn telling his new comrades that he was recruited as an infant.

So...um...why in the HELL are we supposed to see this Jedi practice as happy, fluffy, adoption?! Or at the very least take the whole "Oh, but this is all willing! It is a great honor for the family to sacrifice their child!" without a 55-gallon drum of suspicion? In real life, children were recruited from peasant families or other disfavored populations to serve as concubines (if female), soldiers (if male), servant/slave labor, or human sacrifice. It was a way for the elites to tell these disfavored populations that they could do whatever the hell they wanted, especially destroy any future or hope for the future. And the only thing these disfavored people could console themselves with is the elite's excuse that having their child "chosen" in this way was an honor.

Another dystopia trope is the whole Word of Lucas that Jedi can have casual sexual relations but not emotional attachment. Well, that was a common thing in sci-fi dystopias. Logan's Run with the glasshouses where people hooked up with strangers and watched each other get it on. Brave New World with the Orgy Porgy. That sort of thing. And it was a thing in real life for people conscripted to military or religious service to not be able to marry but they were fine with...er...more transactional forms of sex. The elite of the Catholic church are what gave us the courtesan, prostitutes trained to be elite and educated companions to the Papal court. Buddhist monks of Edo Japan having ritualized pederasty with the acolytes. Both regulated brothels, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't just because they were doing the health inspections. We know sex work, sex slavery, and that sort of thing is all over the GFFA and given a wide tolerance. We also know that Jedi do espionage type missions and that honey pot espionage is never going away. We also have the sticky bit that Force Sensitivity has a strong (though not guaranteed) genetic component. So there may be a few unpleasant reasons for this dystopian edict as well. Only made more salient by the nasty misogynistic treatment if a female/carrying Jedi gets pregnant.

The last dystopia trope is the removal from the natural world. Much emphasis is put on the natural aspects of the "good" guys versus the cold tech of the "evil" guys. Or if we have a world where everyone lives in cyberpunk hellscape, only the rich and powerful (usually the bad guys) get to see an actual tree. Okay, the alleged "good" guys are sitting in the middle of a cyberpunk hellscape world. And like the rich elite, they have actual real trees in a place where most citizens will never touch real soil! At least with Legends, you got Jedi enclaves and outposts in really nice locations surrounded by nature and life; Tython, Dantooine, Ossus. Tenoo if you want to throw a Disney example in there.

The average muggle citizen of Star Wars lives in horrible poverty. To the point where a one-room apartment in a slum building on the SURFACE of Coruscant is considered luxury. Many more live in subsistence farming like medieval peasants. Others under the thumb of corporate rule because companies like Czerka own entire planets.

Granted, it's better than various incarnations of the Empire because it's not just open slavery led by ax-crazy theocratic whack-jobs too busy backstabbing and power jockeying to get anything done but warfare. But...well...being better than Sith is textbook faint praise.

Dystopian themes in the Prequels

“Looking back is helpful in understanding his work. Lucas started out in the 1960’s as an experimental filmmaker heavily influenced by the avant-garde films of the San Francisco art scene. Initially interested in painting, he became an editor and visualist who made abstract tone poems. His first feature, THX 1138 (1971) was an experimental science fiction film that presented a surreal, underground world where a dictatorial state controls a docile population using drugs. Love and sex are outlawed, procreation is controlled through machines, and human beings shuffle meaninglessly around the system.”

—Anthony Parisi, 'Revisiting the Star Wars Prequels'

The bolded parts in this description correspond with the Coruscant Underworld, the Jedi Order’s code, and the creation of the clone troopers, respectively.

Notably, in THX 1138's setting, emotions such as love and the concept of family are taboo:

I’ve always found it so interesting that Lucas incorporated the dystopian elements of his earlier sci-fi into the Prequels, taking place as they do in the context of the final years of the Repubic, with all its colourful and sumptuous visual spendour. In comparison, the post-apocalyptic ‘Dark Times’ of the Original Trilogy would seem on the surface to be the more outwardly ‘dystopian’ setting of the two—however, the actual story of the OT is a mythic hero's journey and fairytale, complete with an uplifting and transcendent happy ending. The OT's setting may be drained of colour, and its characters may be living under the shadow of the Empire, but as a story it is far from bleak or dystopian in tone. Rather, fascinatingly, it is the pre-apocalyptic era of the Prequels that is presented as the more dystopian storyline:

“On the surface, [The Phantom Menace] is an optimistic, colorful fantasy of a couple of swashbuckling samurai rescuing a child Queen and meeting a gifted slave boy who can help save the galaxy from the slimy Trade Federation and its Sith leaders. But beneath that cheerful facade is a sweatshop of horrors.” —Michael O'Connor, 'Moral Ambiguity: Beyond Good and Evil in the Prequels'

This is referring to the state of the galaxy during the Prequels era, including the fact that slavery is known to exist, but is largely ignored by the Republic and the Jedi alike due to being too economically inconvenient to combat. It also refers to how the Jedi of the Old Order come across as cold and distant atop their ivory tower on the artificial world of Coruscant, far removed not only from the natural world but also from the true realities of the people they claim to serve. And then there is the additional revelation in Attack of the Clones that love and family are 'outlawed' within the Jedi Order, creating an environment in which their own 'Chosen One' is unable to flourish, leaving him vulnerable to the Dark Side. Finally, there's the fact that the characters end up so distracted by fighting a civil war (something that goes against their own principles and involves the use of a slave clone army in the process), that they are blinded to the entity of pure evil that is guiding their every move...until it is too late.

“Without a clear enemy, the Jedi Order, the Galactic Senate, the whole of the Star Wars galaxy bickers and backstabs and slides around the moral scales. But there is one benefit to Palpatine’s pure evil crashing down upon the galaxy; against its oppressive darkness, only the purest light can shine through.” —Michael O'Connor, 'Moral Ambiguity: Beyond Good and Evil in the Prequels'

If anything, the Dark Times allows for the OT generation's acts of courage and heroism to flourish and succeed, because they are not hampered by the Old Jedi Order's restrictive rules, nor by its servitude to the whims of an increasingly corrupt Republic—so corrupt, in fact, that by the time of RotS, it is practically the Empire in all but name. Indeed, one of the key features of the Prequels, and what makes them so tragic, is that the characters are already living in a dystopia...they just don't know it.

There is, paradoxically, a level of freedom to be found in the midst of the Dark Times which had not been possible during the Twilight era, which allows Original Trio to rise above the tragedy that befell their predecessors. They are able to act as free agents (not as slaves of a corrupt government), serving only the fight for the liberation of all the peoples of the galaxy (not just citizens of the Republic), and are likewise free to live (and love!) on their own terms. Free to act on their positive attachments to one another, without having to hide the truth of their feelings. It's particularly telling that *this* is, above all, what makes the Prequels era so dystopian—the characters' inability to freely and openly participate in normal familial human relationships.

[bacchuschucklefuck]

it's hans trapp! from drawfee! hans trapp the straw crab!

[bullet-prooflove]

Christmas Bingo Card 2024: Santa Baby - Armand Truisi x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @5corp1ov3nu5  @maeb99 @ajsljfe  @imgoingslightlymad2376 

Companion piece to:

Sunshine - You bring the sunshine to Armand's life.

Edibles (NSFW) - You help Armand to relax.

Christmas Day starts in a way that Armand could never have expected, with a red Mrs Klaus outfit that he’s sure he’s seen doing the rounds on PornHub.

When he first wakes up there’s a dread in his chest because Clara’s decided he won’t get to see the boys until the evening. That gives him a whole ten hours of sitting there thinking about how alone he is on a day that’s supposed to be dedicated to his family.

It's 10am when the doorbell goes. He’s wearing a Christmas jumper from last year and watching ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’, debating if it’s too early for a little homemade eggnog when he opens the door to see you standing there, looking like Santa’s wet dream.

He has never gotten a boner over this type of shit before but now he can’t get his jeans off fast enough.

“I thought I’d come over and give you your present.” You practically purr as you straddle his lap and Armand thinks he must be the luckiest son of a bitch on earth.

The thing he loves about being with you is that you make him the focus of your attention. It doesn’t matter if the two of you are dancing together at the Bred to Buck, catching up over the counter at the weed shop or simply trying to figure out the logistics of the next fuck, you make him your priority.

When you sink down onto his cock he’s in heaven, his hands grip the fabric of that pretty red velvet dress, bunching it in his fists as he thrusts up into you. Your head tips back, your hair falling over your shoulders, his name on your lips and it’s just the most beautiful fucking thing he’s ever seen.

You ride him like that, slow, unhurried, as if you’ve got all the time in the world and it does something to Armand because no one has ever treated him like this, no one has ever dedicated themselves to him the way that you do.

His hands slip from your waist, tangling in your hair, guiding your mouth back to his. You taste like blueberries, like the edible you’d placed on his tongue before you pulled off his jumper.

A little light relief you’d called it because you know this time of year is hard for him.

That intensity starts to build, each wave crashing through his nerve endings setting them ablaze as you rock against him. He meets you stroke for stroke, short, punctuated thrusts that have you keening for him as your pussy grips him so fucking tight he practically combusts. He buries his face into the hollow of your throat as he climaxes, his release spilling inside of you as he moans your name against your skin.

“Fuck Alma.” He whispers as he tries to catch his breath. “I’m gonna get a fucking hard on everytime I see the colour red after this.”

You laugh then, your fingers combing through his unruly curls, tugging his head back so you can see his face. His hips arch at the sensation, fucking his come a little deeper and he’s thrown back into the euphoria as you start to move once again.

“Merry Christmas.” You murmur, your gaze fixed on as his thumb traces over the apple of your cheek.

Merry fucking Christmas indeed.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[kesopan]

warmth in the cold

[azaracyy]

love is hell

[dearcharliefnafcomic]

LITTLE PLASTICINE KINGER

He brings me such joy :)

He was supposed to be accompanied by a Pomni but I used all my white on him. That’s alright though, he deserves it <3

[kissingarthurclaus]

Still coping with art block using the Betty Boop style, some highlighters, and prayers 😭

[artekai]

Look who's stealing whose evil master plan because he's never had a single idea of his own

[warrior-of-storms]

Current To-Do List (tangled threads edition)

Finish second draft of Investigation chapter 3 (then send it off to the beta(s))

Finish chapters 2 & 3 of if it would only get it through to you

Finish/edit Nobody's Son, Nobody's Daughter

Finish flip the record and start over

Plot/draft X-Men story

Plot/draft the WandaVision/Billy, Tommy, & America story

Visual timeline?

Patrol playlists

[blushouyo]

couldnt gale have been kind to me and told me he was about to explode when I had the patient and nice party of wyll and karlach??? did he really have to do it when im with lae zel and astarion??

[sohcean]

and forget-me-nots; a love letter

the timestamp on this one says “december 17, 2019.” it has laid in the recesses of my drafts for three years now. 

i don’t remember what it was supposed to be about. all that’s left of the original idea is the title and the first two tags, the beginning of a bleeding heart ramble. and so it sat, while i stared at it and tried to remember. tried to remember what it was for.

a little ironic. but i’m pretty sure life has a sense of humor.

forget-me-nots, the first flower i assigned to im changkyun. a small, purplish blue flower that grows at the head of tall grass. always in little patches. perennials. they return, year after year. fond of the places where shadows grow. where streams sleep.

for three years, the letter laced with scorpion grass has sat, nearly forgotten. today, i remember. it was meant to be a comfort, a balm, a palm frond to block out oppressive sunlight, a candle to light a darkened room. a reminder. 

of respect. of fidelity. of faithfulness. of remembrance. of love.

a promise.

—i will remember that all of this was beautiful.

with this, i answer the man who simply asks to be remembered. who, in murmured, deep tones, mustered the courage to plead for love. who very seriously wished to illuminate his own weakness, his own struggle. who very earnestly radiates humanity.

and—

he who will be never be forgotten.

i’ve always had some difficulty writing about changkyun. it’s like… speaking of him at length pulls this heaviness along with it. this weight to his personhood that cannot be ignored when addressing him. it’s been called many things. many names, most of which i find myself disagreeing with.

and it will never be my place to name something that is within another person, is another person. a person i don’t know face-to-face, at that.

but if i may speak as to give voice to a theory, i would name it devotion.

i know no other words to grasp at it. i know no other words that can even stand next to it.

the moon writing poetry to what he says is the sun. and, in turn, words streaming out from a bleeding heart like moonlight. even behind clouds. even when only a sliver is left in the sky.

dedicated. just like the rest of them.

like such gentle perennials blooming above wild grass near a stream, popping his head in under the cover of the stars, writing something between a ramble and a poem and a love letter, and then falling asleep. and like the petals of periwinkle flowers tickling your fingertips when you brush against them, leaving some teasing remark in order to cover such deep vulnerability (something like roots). and like beautiful blossoms upon the mind, his entire presence etched in a communal heart (the color purple and rich red roses and cats with crystal eyes and a half-drank bottle of hennessey, for whatever reason).

and following the growth, the blossom, the bloom. something like shyness becoming an owned sensitivity and pre-disposal to the quiet and reflective. and such sensitivity becoming lent to creativity, lyrics and melodies and recognizable bass, lingering impressions of emotion buried in songs, tattooed skin with poetry of its own. becoming well-read, well-spoken. voicing wants and wishes.

—can i see you forever?

still silly. still young. still strange. but unfurling like the flower on his forearm.

and within this growth, there is a devotion to the self. a refusal to be something that feels inauthentic. a devotion to his own expression in his music, in his production, in choices concerning what comes next. a devotion to his comfort and his brotherhood (“i don’t want to be on a stage by myself.”)

a devotion to the path he treads, shadowed, maybe, and difficult indeed, but one with its own light at the end.

—the cold road became beautiful at once, hands like ice let them bloom like spring…

i was able to endure a particularly long night.—

and at the center of this blossom, at the most profound depth of this delicacy, lies a devotion to preciousness. to the urge to carry someone’s heart in your palms. to the beloved mundanity of walking at someone’s side. to the meaning of nothing and everything and the absurdity of love and the intimacy of returning and—

—every little thing i do has meaning because of you.

and i think it is the most heart-wrenching devotion of all.

a recognition that happiness is precious because bad days come. saying that the very word, “fan,” carries weight between his lips because the meaning is precious. that the gaze, gentle and gorgeous, is precious. that memory is precious. that affection is precious. that the concept of eternity is precious because you only yearn for it when you have something you want to protect.

that though the heart bleeds (i earnestly pray you won’t forget me), it beats (stay.)

and words i could say no better than the one who thought of them.

—but even when [i wasn’t fine] our monbebes were there. and more than anyone else, my members were by my side every day. i really want to express my gratitude to them. we eat together. we sleep together… they really became my family. even without doing anything, in my daily life they always approach when i want to share something precious.

the preciousness of family, of having something to rely on, of having someone grasp your wrist when you fall.

—to our monbebe, who safeguard these precious moments, i also want to say thank you.

the preciousness of connection, of having the strength to approach someone with glistening eyes and shuddering shoulders, of laughter and memory and the return of joy.

and arguably the most precious of all; someone who names their mother as their favorite artist, who picks a favorite trinket and shows it off with pride, who will always step back to give the spotlight to someone else, who notices, who would rather carry the sentiment than the accolade, who shows up in odd places just to support his family, who repeats gentle assuages again and again and again just to somehow get his affections across, who is brought (as a pillow) to company functions because he deserves to be there, who promises forever because he believes in it now, who is calmed by the whispers of a crowd, who smiles in an affectionately catlike manner, who rises eternally like a perennial, who sees the soul of a person and names it precious.

im changkyun, who devoted to the belief even the smallest and most inconsequential thing having meaning when it is looked at with love.

so in the spirit of preciousness, of devotion, of night and shadow and blooms, i give this, somewhat in the same manner as the one it is dedicated to—

leaving forget-me-nots pressed between pages, simply as a reminder:

i love you. i always will.

[binch-i-might-be]

brainstorming a Foundations of Decay tattoo concept rn. I'm thinking,,,,, anatomical heart maybe. Insect. blood & flowers. any suggestions?

[amouress16]

Iterator and Slugcat OC concepts I’ve had sitting around for a little while ft my first ever pixel art attempts

[angelhound]

.

[cammie]

forcing myself not start another wip now because i’ve lost interest in my current one that i literally started 4 days ago. god help us