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writing-is-a-martial-art · 2 months ago

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500 year plan:

Years 1-50: Obtain immortality in whatever way most enjoyable

Years 50-182: chill. Have a little treat.

Years 182-183: discover the end of the world prophecy, panic briefly but with much theatrics. Burn my wizard’s tower in lament.

Years 183-184: restore my wizard's tower. Apologize to all neighbors for the inconvenience.

Years 184-195: contact every entity of knowledge and power in search of remedies for the end of the world.

Years 195-200: in light of the end of the world seeming inevitable sit in my new tower and sulk, indulge in attempting some melancholy songs.

Years 200-220: get really invested in my melancholy songs, master the humble guitar and slowly gain some indie popularity with my band, consisting of yours truly and some other powerful entities I formed a sullen bond with in my search for ways to thwart the inevitable demise, End of the World Disposables.

Years 220-222: due to some interpersonal drama our band falls apart despite its solid claim to fame, but with some introspection and making amends I manage to stay friends with three out of the four other members. The bass player continues to sulk at the bottom of the ocean but I send him the occasional fruit basket.

Years 222-305: chill, have little treats with my newfound friends. Occasionally perform at the local bar of the town that sprouted around my tower.

Years 305-306: the bass player announces that after some consideration she is ready to emerge from the bottom of the ocean. Throw her a welcoming party and accidentally set my tower on fire again but the bass player has mastered the ocean's patience and manages to soothe the flames before they spread. I am so glad she's back.

Years 306-318: the bass player isn't quite up to putting the band back together yet but she is interested in how the world has changed during her ocean stay so we tour it together, sometimes playing music, sometimes just marveling. We spend a few years working odd jobs and eventually settle as part of a marine exploration crew, as the bass player has a lot of personal experience to offer and we can both be underwater quite comfortably with the whole immortality thing. Tell her that I am glad she's back.

Years 318-326: return to my tower to do further research into the end of the world situation, which again proves fruitless but I had to check again. Spend the rest of the time figuring out how to give my tower legs and walk it from the town to the shore so that the bass player could visit me easily. She comes and goes with the tides but I certainly don't mind.

Years 326-341: the bass player says she'd like to give the band another try and after some preparations End of the World Disposables hit the roads again, met with confused reviews as to the meaning of our over a century long absence, such as “wait, my grandma told me about them” and “how aren't these guys dead yet?”. A 120-year old venerated martial arts master comes to our first performance and after the show in tears of joy tells us how he saw me and the bass player beat the shit out of each other on stage a hundred years ago which was the most beautiful thing he ever did see and inspired his determination to master the arts of violence. The experience is largely uncomfortable for everyone involved.

Years 341-420: chill in my now-coastal tower. Share treats with the bass player who has more or less moved in. Remember to text the immortals group chat that it's been 420 years since me obtaining immortality and in the interim both group chats and weed have been discovered, which is quite nice.

Years 420-440: some scientist has analyzed the songs from End of the World Disposables and connected their themes to the motions of some celestial bodies, which resulted in his discovery that the world’s got about fifty years until it's over. Many countries are submerged in chaos and although me and the other entities of knowledge explain that the situation can't be helped, everyone is blamed and life is largely made worse for many people. I and the bass player announce sovereignty of our tower-port and I try to burn the local town hall as a show of strength but miss and burn my tower again. The bass player is too busy dueling the mayor to stop it this time. This is largely considered a bad call by everyone and I swear to never attempt such a garish display of pyromantic dominance again. The bass player runs for mayor and is unanimously elected.

Years 440-441: rebuild the tower.

Years 441-498: chill, have a little treat, support the bass player in her endeavors to establish a restorative justice system and provide basic universal income, which results in her little port being one of the places least affected by the waves of the end of the world panic

Years 499-500: contact my friends and discuss our plans for the end of the world, decide what to do in the meanwhile. Write a song for the first time in a century which ends up being quite cheesy and mostly about the bass player but she does seem to like it, so that's good.

End of year 500: sit at the top of my tower and watch the sunset over the ocean with the bass player. Something overtakes me and I yell “goodbye you beautiful bitches!” to the entire town or perhaps the entire world and the bass player laughs and that's about it. Get reincorporated into the primordial goo from which the universe is constructed.

...

Years 0-8 billion: chill, reinvent gravity.

Years 8-9 billion: form planets, atmosphere quest. Attempt at life.

...

Waiting.

Years 13.5-13.6 billion: sentient life. Guys start getting ideas.

Years 13.7 billion: some dude decides to attempt immortality in whatever way most enjoyable, spends over a century fucking around. Meanwhile some fucker is learning how to play the bass.

#oleg's writing #my writing #speculative fiction #original writing

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thebibliosphere · 2 years ago

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I both believe "poor people deserve art" and "artists deserve food", but it's hard to reconcile those beliefs. I blame capitalism. And I suppose it mostly matters who you're stealing from?

I don't mean to question you at all, I'm against people pirating your stories. I guess I was just wondering if you had more thoughts regarding the reconciliation the two beliefs I quoted above.

I think the reconciliation is working toward a future where things are better, and authors and artists don't have to beg people not to steal from them because they think every author is Stephen King, who wouldn't notice if you stole the pennies found under his couch when in reality most of us are hunting for spare change down the back of the couch because we are earning below minimum wage.

We need people to embrace the idea that art belongs to the working class, both in terms of consumption but also creation.

If you don't support the working-class creators, you'll only end up with rich fucks with no scope of the world beyond their own narrow view of privilege.

Indie creators are actually working very hard to change the way the industry works, and the publishing industry is shitting itself over it. They don't like the success some of us are having. It's why they keep upping prices while slashing corners on their own production (while never affecting the man at the top) to try and stay competitive within the rat race they've created.

They're not interested in the proliferation of art. They're not interested in making sure their authors can afford to live. They don't want more diversity. They don't want inclusion. They want profit at whatever the cost.

And while indie creators very much need to get paid because we live in a capitalistic society and everything is burning down around us, and a carton of eggs now costs more than what I earn per hour, our creativity is directly at odds with the type of profiteering big publishers want.

The money should go to the writers. Not the CEOs. The money should go to the workers in the print houses. Not the CEOs. No one needs the kind of wealth these people have. It's obscene. We need direct action against these conglomerates. We need unionization. We need a means to fight back so that we can make art and make it accessible.

So, how do we do that? I don't know. I'm just a very tired, disabled creator doing my best to keep my head above water. But I think getting people to realize that art and books are worth saving up for would be a good start.

That putting money in the pockets of creators is just as important as your own enjoyment of their art. Because if there aren't any artists, you've got nothing.

Getting them involved with their local libraries would also be a great start. Educating them on how the industry works is part of that. The number of people telling me they had no idea libraries paid authors is staggering. And that's intentional. It's a by-product of right-wing propaganda to make you think libraries are worthless and just sap taxpayers' money.

They're not.

If they were, the fash wouldn't be trying so hard to take them away.

Basically, we need working-class solidarity and for certain people on the left to rid themselves of the idea that just because something isn't borne of manual labor, it doesn't have worth. We need the artists and the dreamers as much as we need to bricklayers and the craftsmen. Otherwise, what's the fucking point of it all?

#sorry #this isn't an actionable answer to your question #I don't know what that answer is #I just need people to realize art is not the exclusive creation of the wealthy #and treating it as such is making everything worse

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masamasan · 1 month ago

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[Brand New Hero | Mark x You]

Summary: As the newest PR intern at the GDA, you’re at the absolute bottom of the food chain. Until you meet him: a clumsy, god-awfully dressed rookie hero with no name, no fame, and no idea what he’s doing.

Your master plan: make him the greatest superhero this world has ever seen.

You’re a teenager. He’s a teenager. Throw in a wild cocktail of hormones, a couple of near-death experiences, and some crippling anxiety. What could possibly go wrong?

Contains: Alternate Universe | Female Reader | Slow Burn | Friends to Lovers

"Describe yourself."

Ah, yes — the most dreaded of questions, probably the most awkward ice breaker there is. Worst thing is that it tells you absolutely nothing about anyone.

It usually goes one of two ways:

You either tell them the most generic, Jane or John Doe kind of response as humanly possible (‘I like music, hanging out with friends, and going to the gym’) or go the special snowflake route and tell them a meaningless, obscure fact about yourself (‘I like this really niche, indie boy band from Iceland that nobody knows except for me’).

Either way, it’s fake, mildly disturbing, and something you’d rather like to skip.

But how would you describe yourself?

You freshly turned eighteen, were an early high school graduate, and had a full-ride scholarship to the University of Virgina. So you weren't completely stupid, no. But you weren't one of those brain-melting Einsteins nor one of those hard-working underdog model students either.

The most special thing about you was not you, but your family: Your parents were both prodigies in their respective fields and got recruited to work for the government right after college graduation.

When you were younger, you thought they were spies, like the ones in that movie with Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. They'd zoom around in their bullet-proof Jeeps, only strut out of the house in their perfectly-ironed black suits, and would feed your classmates the lamest lies about working boring office jobs. When you discovered in fourth grade that they were, in fact, not secret agents, you were mildly devastated, to put it lightly.

In short: You were a nepo baby and had rich parents that sent you to an excessively expensive, really snobby private school that made it ridiculously easy to get into any college you wanted.

What else? You were kind of a (massive, enormous, colossal) people pleaser, and thought the only thing defining your self-worth was if others liked you. Everything you did was done perfectly, and you would rather swallow a thousand needles than let others think you were incompetent in any way. That left you stuck being everyone's go-to person whenever they needed a group project partner — only to end up doing the entire thing by yourself while they could lean back and watch.

You blamed your parents for that cursed trait, because they had such ridiculously high expectations for their only child that you couldn't allow yourself to disappoint them even microscopically. They wanted you to be their perfect mini-clone, destined to follow in their footsteps and become another successful government drone. And then when you found yourself a guy who would fulfill their impossible standards (probably an astronaut, doctor, and lawyer all in one), you'd create a perfect copy of them in the future again, so their legacy could live on forever and ever. Hooray.

That's how you ended up here, as an intern for the Global Defensive Agency inside the Pentagon in Arlington, Virginia. Your parents had convinced the director to let you prove yourself, helping you to take your first step into your government career.

“It's going to be hard in the beginning," your dad had said. "If you don't do your tasks well, they will sort you out and you will never get that opportunity again."

Those words stuck with you throughout the first weeks of your internship, when you would run around to get everyone their correct order of coffee, copy and staple their paperwork or reply to angry emails from citizens whose houses got destroyed in the recent Omni-Man vs Lizard Group fight.

Work was hard, especially when you had to juggle that on top of your Political Economy online classes, but somehow you managed. The nightmarish image of your parents' disappointed faces combined with a truly concerning amount of your self-brewed espresso and Red Bull concoction (patent pending) kept you going, alright.

And you did well. You were an amazing errand runner, if you said so yourself. You never spilled a drop of coffee, never stapled the wrong documents, and never lost your cool when citizens called you insults in their angry emails. The best intern ever. That's what you were. Gold star for you.

So when your mother, a scientist, who worked closely with the director of the GDA, had helped you get a promotion, you weren't so sure if you were happy with it. You were great as a coffee girl, so why risk it and start from the bottom again? Hell, maybe you could be a coffee girl manager one day if you kept it up!

"You will never be the best, if you don't even try," your mother had said. “And what’s the point if you’re not the best?”

There wasn’t much you could say to argue — especially when she hit you with one of those ‘if looks could kill’ glares that made you rethink your entire life choice of opening your mouth. So you agreed, like the perfect grateful daughter you were.

Your new role in the PR department was to help raise Teen Team's public image. It sounded a lot more exciting than it actually was. Most days, it meant crafting excuses when they accidentally leveled a neighborhood during a fight, or scrambling to spin damage control after another politically incorrect comment in an interview.

And now you stood in front of young superheroes you were supposed to work with, a group of mismatched teens that had been under GDA's care for some time now. Five pairs of eyes were glued to your awkwardly stiff black suit-clad body, a clipboard with nothing written on it pressed against your chest as they expectantly waited for an introduction.

So… with your mediocre background story in mind, how did you describe yourself?

The most accurate would be: A privileged doormat with an unhealthy caffeine addiction.

But of course you would never say that.

"I like listening to music," you stammered, after giving them your name. "And meeting friends in my spare time," you quickly added.

You went the Jane Doe route, to play it safe. Not cool, but there was nothing cool about you anyway. You also forgot the gym part, but it was too late now.

Instead of introducing themselves back to you, they shrugged your uncomfortable attempt at socializing off. The redhead sent you a crooked smile out of pity. That was nice. Kinda.

"Well, you guys can go back to training," Donald said, clearing his throat, when the silence got too thick. “I think you did a great job."

The older man patted you awkwardly on your shoulder, and you grimaced at yourself as soon as the heroes turned their backs on you. You couldn't think of a better way to completely wreck your reputation on the first day with the people you were supposed to work for... at least it went better than that time when you met Cecil for the first time. That memory had been safely locked away in the 'never ever think about again, not even under torture' part of your brain.

"Don't worry," Donald quickly added, when he saw your panicked face. "It was hard for me, too, in the beginning. But you'll get the hang of it."

You nodded and suppressed the urge to cry tears of pure, undiluted mortification. Donald was probably the only person here who actually treated you like a human being, and not like a coffee-bringing, document-stapling, hate-mail-responding cyborg with a government-approved stamp on its forehead. You were pretty sure it was because you reminded him of himself — another professional doormat for the higher-ups to wipe their feet on.

He was the director's right-hand man... and left-hand man too. If there was anything Cecil didn't want to do, Donald would be stuck doing it. That's how he became your mentor of sorts — Cecil had waved you off like an annoying mosquito and declared he didn't have time for insignificant interns like you, so Donald got forcibly drafted into babysitting duty.

You involuntarily saw yourself in Donald, too, a haunting glimpse of what your future might hold. Your gaze wandered from his aggressively receding hairline to his strangely bland face. Is that how you would end up? Senior assistant manager or whatever Donald's actual title was? You just hoped you would end up with more stylish glasses than his tragic grey frames.

When you were asked to return to your desk and help with other tasks, your mind wandered off again. A life solely dedicated to chasing the approval of others, to being at the bottom of the food chain, to accepting even microscopic scraps of attention as long as you would get noticed... was that really how your life was going to be? Become the human equivalent of a participation certificate?

When you were younger, your parents moved around a lot. Government duties and all that. You’d been to San Fransisco, St. Louis, Milwaukee, and a bunch of other big cities you barely remembered. The last time you were in Chicago was when you were five. You think it was when your mom was send there for two months to work on a “super secret mission”. Now you were back in the Windy City as an official GDA intern, which sounded way more impressive than it actually was.

Donald had asked you to deliver "extremely important documents" the director needed urgently. They were supposedly so top secret that they couldn't be sent electronically or by mail and had to be hand-delivered. You were convinced Donald just really pitied seeing you sitting at your desk all day and invented a task to give you something vaguely resembling purpose.

When you arrived at the glass-and-steel monstrosity in downtown Chicago, you endured a security process worse than the TSA: two body scans, multiple ID checks, and an interview that felt more like an interrogation — all so they could dramatically hand you... wait for it... two pages in a manila envelope.

"Close the door when you leave," the secretary droned without looking up from her phone, gnawing on her pen like it was a salami stick.

You nodded and smiled reflexively (your default response), then slipped out and eased the door shut with the careful precision of someone defusing a bomb. Looking down at the thin envelope in your hands, reality sank in. Did you really just take a flight in the middle of the night, went through all this alien like probing, just to be send away after five minutes? You sighed.

The hallway stretched out, empty — pretty sure you just saw a tumbleweed roll by. Security had been tight as a vice at the entrance, but once inside, the guards were seemingly on permanent coffee break. That's when you spotted it: a sign pointing to roof access. If anyone had been around, they might’ve seen the light bulb pop up over your head. If the government was going to waste your time, you might as well make it worthwhile with a nice view of Chicago before heading back.

You glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then slipped through the stairwell door and headed up.

The rooftop greeted you with a gust of wind that nearly snatched the precious two pages from your grasp. Clutching the envelope to your chest, you settled at a respectable distance from the edge. Safety first, exciting views second — you didn’t want to end up in the headlines as the first GDA intern that fell to her death while on duty, after all.

Chicago sprawled before you: all concrete, glass, and ant-sized humans going about their business. It was... fine, you thought. Nice, even. But not exactly the life-altering moment movies had promised. No epiphany, no sudden clarity about your life's purpose, just... buildings. Taller than the ones in Virginia, maybe, but still just… buildings.

Then, just as you were about to shrug and accept your boring fate, a flash of neon caught your eye. You froze mid-turn, eyes squinting.

About three blocks away, someone in a blinding mix of yellow, orange, and turquoise was flailing wildly at what looked like a living chunk of concrete. It was a fight — probably. At least, that’s what it was trying to be.

The hero, assuming that’s what you thought he was (villains usually had better fashion sense), launched himself at Concrete Man. Judging by how he pinballed off the alley walls just trying to reach his target, he was definitely new. Probably not even a properly trained hero.

Vigilantes and hobby heroes weren’t exactly rare these days. More and more people were waking up with powers, and plenty didn’t hesitate to use them, for better or worse. Technically, you were supposed to report your powers to the GDA and get registered before doing anything flashy. But good luck enforcing that on everyone.

Concrete Man responded by seizing the hero by his costume and hurling him sideways into the brick wall of an apartment building. The hero peeled himself off the wall, wobbling visibly even from your distant perch. But instead of retreating, he managed to launch himself forward again and crash directly into his opponent.

The impact sent both combatants tumbling violently against the walls of the alleyway, breaking off a fire escape in the process, and then finally into the street, where they managed to flip over a parked car.

The final crash sent both fighters sprawling. Concrete Man hit the ground hard, chunks of his rocky armor crumbling away to reveal dark skin and the surprisingly ordinary face of a man beneath the rubble. The hero was the first to get up. He didn’t look shaken, just winded, as he stared down at his fallen opponent.

He’d won. Somehow, against all odds and coordination, the rookie had actually taken down the villain.

You stood frozen, documents forgotten in your hand. You’d seen plenty of hero footage during your GDA internship: clean, polished takedowns by legends like Omni-Man or the Immortal. This wasn’t that. This was raw. Messy. Kind of pathetic.

And yet… You were leaning forward now, hands gripping the edge of the parapet, heart ticking faster than you cared to admit. This was probably the closest you'd ever come to being starstruck — and all because you’d just watched a clumsy rookie take down a giant pebble.

Blue and red flickered at the edge of your vision — sirens, no doubt — and the moment the hero noticed them, he bolted. He shot into the air, but clipped the side of a building, and spun wildly mid-air.

You watched, amused… until something about the trajectory felt off.

He was getting bigger.

No, closer.

Wait.

Your mind was still playing catch-up, trying to connect the dots, when your body finally decided to panic. You stumbled back, clutching your very important GDA documents like your life depended on them.

A blur of orange filled your vision, followed by a heavy thud, and the next thing you knew, you were flat on your back, staring at the sky, with the wind knocked clean out of you.

You blinked, disoriented. The thin GDA envelope was still clutched against your chest, safe and sound, so you sat up, heart thudding. No concussion, no major injuries. You were fine.

Your gaze shifted to the sprawled figure in orange, yellow, and turquoise lying a few feet away.

For a split second, your body locked up. The guy who just punched a literal walking, talking concrete wall was lying just an arm's length away from you — a mere (below average fit) human. The last time you physically hurt someone was when you accidentally slapped Donald on the forehead, trying to swat a fly. You were, without question, the last person on Earth who stood a chance against someone with superhuman strength.

Your fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, and you scrambled to bolt for the door. But just as your foot lifted, he groaned and sat up, hand cradling his head.

Your heart was slamming violently against your ribs. Every instinct screamed run, but you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

Up close, the outfit was even worse: faded orange rain boots, baggy turquoise joggers with at least two visible holes, and a tight orange top that definitely had seen better days. A yellow cloth masked the lower half of his face. Through his cracked pair of goggles, a sharp brown eye peered out.

You hadn’t realized you were full-on staring until he met your gaze. Instantly, your breath caught.

Your muscles froze. Not out of awe, but out of pure, feral fear.

Sure, he seemed like a hero. But these days, who knew? Powers didn’t come with moral compasses. What if he was one of those loose-cannon vigilantes who didn’t like witnesses?

Was this how it ended? Smacked off a rooftop just because you were nosy?

For a moment that felt like eternity, you both stared at each other, silence stretching until it got too uncomfortable.

“Are you—” your voice came out lower than you expected, so you tried again, louder. “Are you gonna kill me?”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them. Your eyes dropped immediately, refusing to meet his.

A dozen grim scenarios flashed through your mind, one worse than the next, until they all blurred into static. Silence stretched.

“Huh?” the guy said, blinking. His voice was higher than you’d expected. “Wait — what? No! I — God, no. I was just… trying to help.”

You risked a glance up. He was standing now — and, wow, he was taller than you expected. Yeah, you definitely stood no chance at all against him.

He took a cautious step forward.

You mirrored it backward, stiff as a board.

He froze, then quickly raised both hands like he was trying to show you he meant no harm. “Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

His gaze flickered sideways, seeming nervous all of a sudden.

“I was just chasing this bad guy and then… uh—“ He scratched the back of his neck, shifting his weight. “I kinda lost control.”

A beat passed.

“Also, sorry about… you know.” He gestured vaguely at the rooftop. “Crashing into you.”

You gave him another cautious once-over. His posture was stiff, his eyes wide and unsure — it almost reminded you of a puppy meeting someone new for the first time. He definitely didn’t look dangerous. If anything, he seemed more scared of you than the other way around. Your shoulders dropped a little. It wasn’t safe, not exactly, but not an immediate threat either.

You offered him a tight-lipped smile.

“It was amazing!” you blurted before your brain could stop your mouth. Your face flushed. “I mean the fight against the stone guy. Not the part where you knocked me out.”

“Oh. Uh… thanks?” he said, blinking like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “I’m still figuring things out. Kind of winging it, honestly.”

Then, the two of you were both staring — holding the awkward prolonged eye contact like neither of you had any idea how social interactions were supposed to work. Still, there was something about him. He didn’t just survive a fight with a living concrete slab — he won. And he was a complete nobody.

And yet…

Was this what talent scouts felt at high school basketball games? That strange gut-deep certainty? The kid had no training, no coordination, almost non existent flying skills… and yet you could see it. Potential. Raw, stupid, unpolished potential.

Your breath caught.

And suddenly, like lightning hitting the ground, you got an idea. A brilliant idea. This was it. This was your ticket out. He was going to change your fate!

“What’s your name?” you asked, taking a step closer.

“Ma—” He stopped, caught himself, and scratched the back of his head. “Uh. I mean. Haven’t really settled on one yet.”

“We’ll figure that out,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, and closed the distance between you. “Have you ever thought about becoming a professional hero?”

He squinted at you. “A… what?”

“A professional hero,” you repeated, eyes bright. “Y’know. Like, full-time. Uniform, sponsors, TV deals, the whole package.”

He gave a vague shrug. “I guess? I mean, not really. I just do stuff.”

Your grin widened, your mind already drifting into the ideal version of your future. This was happening. This was your moment. Goodbye coffee runs, goodbye being Donald’s stand-in, and good-fucking-bye to being your parents’ puppet. They couldn’t say a damn thing if you were the one who discovered the next great superhero.

You were going to make history.

“What’s your name?” he asked suddenly, breaking you out of your mental victory parade.

You blinked, quickly told him, and then, with way too much energy, asked, “Are you interested in working with the GDA?”

He flinched slightly at your volume. “The… GDA?”

With dramatic flair, you yanked the retractable cord on your badge and shoved it right in his face. “Boom. See? I work for them.” (You purposely skipped over the ‘intern’ part.)

“I could help you become a real hero,” you said, voice dropping into a lower, persuasive tone. “We’ve got the training. The funding. The connections.”

You were already picturing your new business cards. Agent. Advisor. Executive Talent Scout. No, screw it — director.

The rookie blinked again, slowly. Then smiled politely.

“Thanks,” he said. “But no.”

Pop. There went your dream. Your smile dropped.

“I’m not really looking to join a government squad,” he added, scratching at the back of his neck. “Kinda trying to do my own thing.”

You stared at him like he’d just refused a winning lottery ticket. Thirty days paid vacation. Free dental. 401k. You were pretty sure Donald even said something about a masseuse coming in every Monday. Was he insane not to accept a deal like that?

“Well, uh, sorry again for crashing into you,” he said, waving vaguely in your direction. “Nice meeting you, though.”

You watched in horror as he turned away.

No. No no no! You can’t let this opportunity slip through your fingers like that!

You scrambled after him. “Wait! I — I work with really big names! Like, I’ve met the Immortal!”

He didn’t even glance back. “Miss, I’ve got places to be.”

You followed anyway, practically tripping over your own feet. “Okay, okay, I get it! You don’t want anyone telling you what to do. Totally fair. Authority sucks. The government’s kind of the worst!”

He stopped at the rooftop edge, one foot already on the parapet. You panicked.

“But resources!” you yelled. “You want to help people, right? We have actual resources. Real support. Equipment. You could do so much more.”

That made him hesitate.

He turned just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. His expression had softened. This was it. Now or never — you pressed your advantage.

“We could train you. Help you get better. You’d be teamed with other pros — people with experience. People who could teach you. You could save thousands of lives, maybe millions.”

You paused for effect. “You could even be like… Omni-Man.”

That seemed to hit a nerve. His eyes widened, then dropped to the cracked concrete below him. He didn’t move. He was thinking.

You stood there, fists clenched, hardly breathing.

And then, when he lifted his gaze to meet yours, there was something in his expression you couldn’t quite place — curiosity? Hesitation?

“Like Omni-Man?” he asked.

You had him.

“Yes! Like Omni-Man! No — even better,” you said, nodding enthusiastically. “I saw what you did back there. You’ve got potential. You just need the right push!”

He turned fully to face you now. His shoulders lowered, the tension from just minutes in his stance slowly melting away. He let out a small sigh.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?” you echoed, blinking.

“Yeah… maybe I could come by. You could show me around or whatev—”

Before he could finish, you squealed and threw your fists in the air, letting your precious envelope fall to the ground. He flinched slightly at the volume, but you barely noticed. You grabbed his shoulders, surprisingly solid under your fingers, and gave him a small shake.

“I’m gonna make you a star!”

He nodded a little, eyes wide with second thoughts. But it didn’t matter. He said yes.

You spun around, already rambling through the list of things you’d need: training schedule, PR angle, a costume designer, maybe even a catchphrase. Behind your whirlwind of words, your thoughts were soaring.

He agreed. He really agreed.

Not just to being trained or becoming a part of the GDA.

He agreed to help you escape. To pull you out of the endless, thankless spiral you’d been trapped in.

You had just taken your first step toward freedom. And you were never going back.

Read more on AO3.

#invincible #invincible x reader #invincible x you #invincible reader insert #mark grayson x reader #x reader #mark x reader #female reader #mark grayson fic #mark grayson fanfic #invincible fanfic

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bloodyshadow1 · 1 year ago

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I get people being sympathetic to the Rat grinders, I really do, but the way people will out right lie about canon to make the Bad Kids the villains. The Rat Grinders are kids, they're being groomed by charismatic and dangerous teachers who they trusted, they're corrupted by rage so they're not thinking straight. At the end of the day, that makes them cultists, pitiable and sympathetic, but still villains who are perfectly willing to create a hell on earth for the plan.

I've seen posts condemning the bad kids for killing the rat grinders, I've seen posts calling the Bad Kids bullies this season, I've seen posts that blame the Bad Kids for the whole thing saying the rat grinders are just kids who are being tricked. It's all bullshit, whatever your headcanons, whatever your feelings on the Rat Grinders, they're not the good guys here and are very much the villains this season.

The bad kids killed the 3 of the rat grinders this fight, Ivy, Oisin, and Ruben. No, they didn't stop to try and reach out to them, to try and make them see the light. The Rat Grinders are trying to condemn a whole town to become the domain of a the new god of rage and murder a goddess to usurp her domain. They are high level with the capacity to cast 9th level spells regardless of their hp, with two epic level pc's with super abilities that normal class features don't cover. If the Bad Kids hesitated they would be dead, they knew that, the Rat grinders tried to murder them little over an hour ago. They've hated the bad kids for years and now decided to make their vendetta known, they fucked around and found out.

Which leads me to my second point, the Bad Kids are not bullying the Rat grinders. They're not pleasant to the rat grinders, but you don't have to be nice to the people who hate you. Other than Fig, who I will admit was messed up with how she treated Ruben this year, but also the Rat Grinders did something similar, they were just bad at it, the Bad Kids mostly ignored the Rat grinders. The worst thing the other bad Kids do to the Rat Grinders is make fun of Kipperlily's name, that's it. They don't even do it in front of other students, unless they legitimately forget her name, other than that it's only in front of each other or not other students like Alewyn or Jawbone. It's not great, but that is literally all they have done.

The Rat grinders however, have done all they could to make themselves enemies of the Bad Kids. Ivy was a mean racist bitch who helped steal the cloudrider engine and place pingpong balls all over seacaster manor for the plan. Ruben tried to get the bad kids to take drugs knowing it would get them in trouble. He intentionally had frosty fair held at Gorgug's home to corrupt it, putting not only Gorgug's family in danger but countless other people. Sure Jace had a hand in that, but at best Ruben was an accomplice. Buddy was a smug creep who vandalized Kristen's locker, threatened her brother, and demeaned her and her goddess, without being corrupted by rage. Mary Ann legitimately didn't do anything wrong this season she was just there and did her best on the field as she was supposed to (not even saying this as a joke, she has literally done nothing bad on screen so it's hard to judge her like the rest). But Oisin tried to honey pot Adaine the first week of school, stole the cloudrider engine and the pingpong ball trap, and sent a whole pack of dragons on them to murder them and hundreds of other kids. Kipperlily has been goading the bad kids since the first day of school, she has tried every dirty trick to try and win. She has murdered people, not even people affiliated with the bad kids, but people like Buddy who was on her side, she's tried to murder the bad kids or at least make sure it's harder for them to come back to life if they die, she's stolen from them, she's tried to kill them, she's done everything bad the fans have accused the bad kids of but worse.

And that's just the Rat Grinder's individually. Why are the Bad Kids monsters for killing dangerous people who have tried to kill them, but the Rat Grinders aren't? The Rat Grinders literally tried to commit mass murder of their school a little more than an hour. 500 students of the Aguefort adventuring academy were in Seacaster manor when it was brought into the sky and beset by dragons. 500 innocent bystanders, almost all children, half of them younger than both parties.

I'll get to the rage stars in another post, but I just want to finish this off with, the Rat Grinders are kids, kids who are being groomed by evil men and corrupted by magic. But the Bad Kids are just kids too. They're kids who have been specifically targeted by the rat grinders. The rat grinders started this feud, the Bad Kids retaliated and were better at it. If you're going to take a shot at the king you better not miss, and the rat grinders have been missing their shots this whole season. I don't get why people are blaming the bad kids for trying to save the world but it pisses me off. I apologize for the rant but the tag is for everyone

#fantasy high #fantasy high spoilers #fantasy high junior year #fhjy #fhjy spoilers #the rat grinders #the bad kids #riz gukgak #fig faeth #kristen applebees #gorgug thistlespring #fabian seacaster #adaine abernant #long post #fantasy high meta #d20 #d20 spoilers

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baronessvonglitter · 1 year ago

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Cherry, Cherry 🍒 Chapter 2 🍒

“Coffee & Garth Brooks”

pre-outbreak! AU!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: 1,247

Summary: Joel visits you at work and during some innocent flirting, you reveal something that you probably should have just kept quiet about.

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, however this chapter is pretty tame, age gap (reader is 18, Joel is 35), reader is tomboyish but otherwise no race mentioned and will not be throughout the series, until specified this story takes place in the summer of 2003 and is AU with no outbreak, flirting, reader has mild fantasies about Joel, no use of y/n

Series Masterlist

Mondays at the cafe are hectic. So as eager as you are to see if Joel will show up, you're also swamped with orders. It's not until the crowd begins to clear that you see him. He's smiling at you and you can't ignore the way your heart does a little backflip.

"Hey!" You greet him with a smile.

He approaches the counter. Today he's wearing a heather-gray t shirt and jeans. His hair is tousled, beard neatly trimmed, and you catch a whiff of clean-scented shower gel coming off him. "I remember you," he says, a playful glint in his dark eyes.

"I remember you too. . and I remember I owe you a coffee for helping me yesterday."

"Hang on there. Where's that ring I labored so arduously to free from your kitchen drain?"

You smile at his wordiness. "Why, it's right here." You extend your left hand to show off the ring, a lot cleaner and shinier than the last time he saw it.

He surprises you by taking your hand with a delicate touch. "It would've been a shame to lose somethin' so pretty." His eyes move up to yours, as if to gauge your reaction. "That offer still on the table?"

This small yet meaningful gesture mesmerizes you. "The… offer?" you mumble. "Oh! The coffee." Crimson, you fix his coffee, giving him a bigger size than you're supposed to. "Are you on your way to a site?" You ask as you hand him his drink.

"Thank you. Yeah, I've gotta check in on a site before noon." He sips his coffee, leaning against the counter. You try not to stare but you give a quick glance - his body, even when at rest, seems powerful.

"What's it like, being a contractor? Do you like it?" Before the words come out of your mouth you realize how immature you sound. Of course he likes it. He wouldn't be in that business if he didn't.

You feel a little relief when he smiles. "It depends on the day. You get plenty of sun, and you have to deal with a lot of bullshit, deadlines.. but it pays. So I don't mind it all that much. What about you? You enjoy bein' a barista?" Joel smirks and you wonder if he's enjoying your exchange as much as you are.

"It's thrilling," you say in a deadpan voice. "Wanna trade places for a day?"

"I'll pass," he laughs. "Sounds like you're tryin' to get out of work right now," he teases you, leaning over the counter. He places his elbows down and rests his chin on his clasped palms.

"Can you blame me? At least you get your choice of music in your truck, not whatever this is," you roll your eyes at the indie jazz playing over the speakers.

"I'm in charge of the radio in my truck. Just the way I like it."

"What do you listen to?" You also lean against the counter, subconsciously angling yourself towards him. You're only vaguely aware of the cafe, of your surroundings. As you talk with him it just feels good.

"I'll listen to almost anything: rock, oldies, anything really. I guess I don't like anything too artsy and pretentious-soundin'," he answers.

"You strike me as a country music lover," you give him a little bit of teasing.

He tilts his head to the side. "You got a read on me already, huh? Well I won't lie, I listen to some country, but only the old stuff. Not this new, pop-py, overproduced stuff."

"Do you like Garth Brooks? George Strait? They're the greats. You have to like them."

"Girl, you're too young to tell me who the greats are," he grins. "George is the king of country music. Garth's a given. He's kinda cheesy sometimes, but his songwriting is great, no denyin' that."

"When I was a kid I used to go around singing his songs to anyone who would listen. I would put on a show, sing at the top of my lungs.. I was a pretty rambunctious kid," you laugh at the memory.

"Bet you're just as rambunctious as an adult too," he says playfully.

You smirk. Joel's flirting with you, there's nothing more obvious. "I'm a college girl. I'm supposed to be rambunctious."

He gives a low chuckle and an intrusive thought slides into your brain: you want to know what that low rumble in his chest sounds like, with your ear pressed against him… When you come back to your senses you catch his eyes scanning your face. "Fair enough. I'm sure you've got all the boys chasin' ya, huh?"

There it is: the question you thought was only ever asked in books, in movies, and Joel is the one to ask it about you. "Oh.. not really.."

"I find that hard to believe."

You look away a moment, wiping an invisible spot on the counter with a cloth. "Truth is, I kind of have someone.. back home in Houston." You dare a peek at him only to see something like relief cross his face.

"That's great," he says, maintaining a smile.

You regret saying something like that. Trevor isn't someone worth bringing up to Joel, yet you have used him almost as a shield, and you don't know why. "It's, uh.. kind of uh.. ambiguous," you add. "He's going to university there. I guess we're still figuring things out."

Joel nodded slowly. "So.. it's complicated, is what you're sayin'?"

"A little.. I don't really, you know, want to talk about it." You smile and shrug as if it's a minor thing.

"Of course." He puts his hands up, then he looks like he wants to say something but he stays quiet. Looking at his watch he says, "I gotta get to the site."

"Yeah.. I should also get back to work." You turn your back for a moment then turn again to say something else to him but he's already outside going to his truck.

The rest of your shift goes by smoothly and you pocket your tips and start home. Once you're comfortable in the house you allow yourself to think about your interaction with Joel. Of course the first friend you make in Austin would be the ruggedly handsome, middle-aged man next door. A man with a daughter only a few years younger than yourself.

You've never really been in this position before. You don't really recognize your own feelings. You've had crushes on older guys before: teachers, coaches.. so why is this time different? And why are you struggling with it?

Joel, meanwhile, feels himself in almost the same predicament. He doesn't want to admit it to himself but he really likes you. The age difference is too much for him to even consider, but your presence.. it's getting to him. He likes talking to you, wants to be close to you.. but he can't. He doesn't want to mess up his life, and it will only cause problems if he doesn't keep his distance. He worries he won't be able to fully shake you off his mind.

A few days later he spots a paper on his truck windshield. It's a handwritten note from you:

pool party at our place this Saturday @ 2 pm

and your name signed underneath. Joel smiles and gets a pen from inside his truck to write a reply.

We'll be there, he writes beneath your message and he leaves the paper on your car windshield.

<- prev chapter

next chapter ->

divider by @saradika-graphics 👑

#pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller au #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #ao3 fanfic #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #pedro boys #pedro pascal character smut #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal cinematic universe

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caligvlasaqvarivm · 1 year ago

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what are your thoughts on the ministrife situation? imo literally the worst fate for eridan to be damned to tbh

i think he will eventually (after <5 minutes) just shoot cronus and leave. (CW for mentions of abuse and cronus's romantic grossness and stuff under the cut).

Ignoring the extremely creepy and gross fact that Hussie doesn't seem to have a problem with the age gap (it's There, we've acknowledged that it's creepy and weird, i personally think it highlights how immature the dancestors are despite their physical age, and it actually serves to hint at how trash they are, but it's still really uncomfortable in the moment and never gets properly called out. In any case we've talked about it critically, we can move on and talk about characterization now), he and cronus are actually kind of polar opposites. Given that Cronus, along with many of the dancestors, are riffing on what the fandom interpretation of their Alternian counterparts are, it's kind of a fascinating look at all the things Eridan ISN'T.

The fandom (especially at the time) had flattened Eridan down to "overdramatic Nice Guy hipster who won't stop hitting on people," with varying degrees of sympathy. In other words, they took all of Eridan's outward presentation - the narration calling his genuine anxiety and distress "overblown emotional theatrics," the fact that his being rejected was a running gag - entirely at face value, while also missing what sort of archetype he was actually supposed to represent.

At no point does Eridan ever actually mention a hipster interest, like vintage clothes or indie media. It's all entirely in his design and Karkat calling him a hipster (it's not even in his character introduction), so presumably, it IS a part of his character (Karkat knows him really well), but it's probably a part he keeps to himself, like his love of wizards.

Moreover, he isn't really a Nice Guy. The closest he gets is thinking Nepeta owes him a chance for saving her life, but as far as we can tell, he only ever asked her once, got rejected, accepted that rejection, and has never taken out that rejection on her. When he complains about it, he frames it as a bitter "I guess what I did wasn't enough," not "she's an unreasonable witch withholding romance from me even though I'm so nice to her." All other romance attempts are crimes of... just being way too forward.

He bursts into Kanaya's DMs demanding she auspicetisize with Vriska because... that's what she likes to do, right? The same happens to Terezi in [S] Karkat: Wake Up. He comes on strong in Rose's DMs and after getting a little annoyance back, goes "wow, we kinda have something," and does not realize her blowing up his computer is a rejection because she didn't explicitly tell him no and he's a dumbass. And even though he's nasty at Sollux because emotionally, he's still bitter about Sollux "stealing" Feferi from him, at least CONSCIOUSLY he's recognized the rejection on both fronts and has repeatedly told Feferi that he has no more interest in getting back together with her, in spite of her recognizing that he's emotionally not over her. And speaking of Feferi, his confession to her is entirely genuine and respectful toward her feelings. At no point does he indicate that he feels like she owes him a date.

These aren't Nice Guy actions, they're "I have 0 social skills or self-awareness" actions. And also a little bit "due to my trauma and anxiety and desensitization to murder, I struggle to care about other people" actions. He's not even actually casteist or genocidal - I spent an entire essay arguing that.

But regardless, that's what the fandom ran with, in large part because they didn't bother reading between the lines. Ironically, like Eridan, they just believed what he told them. I don't even necessarily blame the fandom - at least part of this obfuscation was intentional, and a clever trick on the part of the writing. By highlighting Eridan at his worst, and having the narration be complicit in his self-delusion and mockery, the story is able to put the audience in the same mindset as his in-universe bullies - Eridan is dumb weirdo whose emotional problems are worthy of ridicule, not sympathy. Let's all point and laugh!

This sets up his meltdown to be more of a twist - even though his literal introduction is him killing something and talking about genocide, the very real danger he poses is forgotten both by the audience and the other characters because they've gotten so used to dismissing his feelings that they ignore his cries for help and the warning signals he gives off. And it makes his character more relevant and meaningful, because this happens in real life all the time - I'm sure we either all either knew, or were, the friendless weirdo at school who, upon reflection, definitely had either some bad shit going on at home or severe and untreated mental illness (or both).

The reason I'm bringing up this fandom misinterpretation is because, like a couple other dancestors, Cronus is very much a riff on the fanon version of his Alternian counterpart. Unlike Eridan, who's not actually casteist, but desperately trying to act the part, Cronus IS a casteist sea dweller who thinks he's better than lowbloods and land dwellers. Unlike Eridan, who seeks emotional connections with others, and accepts rejections, Cronus is only looking for some action, and keeps trying even well after he knows he's been rejected. Unlike Eridan, who's so consumed by anxiety and trauma that he's pretty much unable to function properly, Cronus DOES exaggerate his problems and explicitly leverage them for attention and sympathy. And unlike Eridan, who feels crushed under the weight of duty and responsibility, and tends to blame himself when things go wrong, Cronus refuses to take responsibility for anything, immediately blaming anybody BUT himself.

They're practically exact opposites, and this is, again, a clever trick on the part of the writing. It's an excellent usage of a foil: though superficially similar, the differences between these two really serves to highlight just how much Eridan is NOT the things that Cronus IS.

And it's especially interesting given that Eridan spent his entire life trying to emulate Dualscar, to the point of modeling his outfit after the guy. To him, it was not only his duty, but his inevitable fate, to wind up as Dualscar's successor. And when he finally meets the guy in person, his opinion is "even I think you're trash."

If that isn't a form of rejecting the values his society has told him repeatedly that he has to uphold, maybe in the service of perhaps setting up some sort of redemption arc or something, I don't know what is.

I've seen people point to this moment as kind of a hee haw funny one-off joke, look at how little Hussie cares about Eridan, but that's not what it is to me. You don't really need to say anything more about their relationship to each other. Eridan thinks Cronus (and by extension, everything Cronus stands for - and everything Eridan has tried to be) is garbage, but is lonely and friendless and desperate enough that he feels pushed into accepting it anyway. It's extremely consistent with his characterization and character arc.

So uh, yeah. Join me next time for more deep dives on how this funny innocuous thing in Homestuck actually Means Something.

#homestuck #eridan ampora

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dock57 · 4 months ago

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{I’m going to blame Tumblr for this one- but this post WAS a reply to one of the Asks I got but, it seem to have remove the ask itself all together? So if the writing is odd, that’s because this was originally an ask reply.}

[I actually been wanting to talk about the animation of Monkey Wrench for some time. Apologize to the low quality video, Tumblr has a 5 MB size limit...

I record the beginning snip of when we first meet Shrike, because the detail to detail and the flow of movement in this scene is one of my favorites.

There are many reasons why I love Monkey Wrench, the animation is one of the main reasons why I got into this show.

At the time, I was really getting into the Indie Animation episodes that people were making, and majority of them being good, there was not one I saw that really spoke to me and what I enjoy. So when my friend mentioned Monkey Wrench, I am BLOWN away that this series was an Indie Animation and not studio created.

I know I saw Glitch Studio TADC before Monkey Wrench, and I love that one very much as well, but 3D animation isn't always my preferred style. Don't take that the wrong way, it has awesome animation and a very fun style, but I tend to be drawn towards 2D styles, as 2D artwork is just what I enjoy!

I could go on and on about the style of the show, but I want to try and stay focus on the animation itself to keep this post a tad shorter. I will say, I do not know a whole lot about animation and its terms, as its a spotty field I done little of.

However, I love the use of "short cuts" you might refer it to that is use to make the animation so slick and clean. From using smears to flashing, it really helps the animation to continue having this flow and consistency without needing to animate every little detail or movement. That shouldn't be a surprise though, as a lot of the artists who work on Monkey Wrench have great animation experience, but of course, Zeruel as well who has been doing animation for a long time- has a lot of experience in the industry too. The series has great timing and movement.

Like with episode four, I honestly forgot that the episode was suppose to be more of an "animatic hybrid." The animation was needed in where it had to be, on scenes that were focused, such as the fight scenes and when characters were speaking. If there were times if animation was "choppy" I never saw it or know a moment where the quality felt like a downgrade. It was still just as inviting and interesting like the last three episodes.

Also loves Zeruel's obsession with "floating" and "flowy" animation, such as the sheets in this snip, or when Beebs and Shrike are on their ship and the hair and tentacles on them are moving due to having zero gravity. I actually become quite memorized by that myself.

When I describe Monkey Wrench to others, I always say its like an early 2000s cartoon love letter, as in it reminds me of cartoons from that time, but, better. A refresh is sometimes another way I would describe it.

I will say that doing animation alone is. So time consuming and takes SO SO MUCH WORK. I done a few short like, few seconds animatics and my goodness, it took me a few days to finish those (though, this is coming from someone who also has ZERO animation skills as I have yet to take the time to learn it). So doing a full episode? Alone? That's a lot. Its SUPER impressive. Though, not ideal when creating a series... I hope Monkey Wrench continues to receive more funding so the animation can be distributed more, as well where the artists are paid nicely too!

The passion is incredible... So I hope that more can join along the "Monkey Wrench" crew and continue animating and creating the series! Monkey Wrench is by far, the series I really really would love to see continue on as I am very invested in its story and characters.]

#indie animation #indie cartoon #indie animated series #monkey wrench #dock57post #adult cartoon

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undreaming-fanfiction · 2 years ago

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Hearts Don't Break Around Here

For the lovely @thefreakandthehair for her wedding. I hope it was everything you wanted it to be!

(also on Ao3)

It’s the small things that make Eddie Munson realize he’d like to make some changes to his life. The mountain of mugs on his desk tells him that, hey, maybe he should get a tea pot (or a bigger desk). The holes in his t-shirt don’t really bother him until he accidentally drops some very hot cigarette ash through one of them and he realizes that he should retire the t-shirt, or maybe re-purpose it for his next battle vest. The way he thinks about it, he needs the universe to send him a small sign.

When it comes to Steve Harrington? Eddie is the happiest in his life. Steve isn’t just a boyfriend, he is THE boyfriend, the alpha and omega of boyfriendness or boyfrienddom, Eddie still can’t decide what to call it. Whatever a boyfriend should be, Steve is. So Eddie doesn’t really think of any possible changes, everything is perfect, except…

Except they’re in bed together, trading lazy kisses and exchanging those stupid little words that make Eddie feel all warm and fuzzy and put a silly smile on Steve’s face. They’re holding hands, Eddie’s guitar calluses against Steve’s sport ones, and Eddie runs his finger over Steve’s and thinks.

I really, really want to put a ring on this man.

The realization hits him like a baby Demogorgon, and once he scrambles together a poor explanation of why he froze mid-kiss (“there was a bug, Steve, like an enormous bug, Shelob-like, I swear on Dustin’s mother!”), he courageously decides to explore his feelings on the matter.

Of course, they can’t get officially married. Yet. Eddie is an optimist, so there is always a yet to be added to any negative thought. It isn’t really about making it legal or seeing Steve in white (well, maybe a little) or having a big party. No, it’s just…

The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes it’s about the promise.

Eddie hasn’t had many certainties in his life, but when they appear, he’s distrustful of them. Nothing lasts long for him and if it does, it only gets taken away the very second he starts feeling hopeful that maybe this is it, this is the one thing he’ll get to keep. He used to feel that way about Steve, but Steve Harrington never left. And when Eddie finally broached the subject, asked him why he tolerates Eddie’s humor, messiness, lack of drive and basically everything Eddie, Steve took Eddie’s hands in his and told him, “I’ve had my share of perfection for a lifetime, Eddie. It’s pretty but so cold. Being with you? It’s like…like being in the sun in the spring, when it’s warm and you’re lying on grass and there are ants walking over you and your clothes are likely to get stained, but you just don’t care because it’s the only place you want to be.” And as if that wasn’t too much for Eddie’s poor heart, he added, “I will never break your heart, Eddie. Never. And I don’t make these promises lightly.”

So no, no one can blame Eddie for wanting to give Steve something back. He wants Steve to be the first commitment Eddie dares to believe, and no matter what, he’ll get that ring.

If only it was that easy.

First of all, choosing anything in Hawkins is impossible. His dear old dad made sure that Eddie can’t go anywhere near jewelry shops without people blaming him for trying to steal stuff, so he makes a trip to Indy and stares to his heart’s content. It’s only when the shopkeeper, a nice elderly lady, asks him what style he’s looking for, he realizes – he has no idea.

He promises to come back the next weekend, a bit more decisive and well-prepared.

Eddie sucks at being inconspicuous, so he enlists help. Robin – after squishing his cheeks to death and beyond – agrees to be his spy and drags Steve off to an emergency meeting, claiming things are way more serious with her college girlfriend than they really are and, “I want to give her something nice, like a ring, but a ring that doesn’t say “marry me”, you get me Steve, no time for that when I’m up to my ears in books, so what would you say is an ideal ring? Is that different for guys maybe? What would you choose? I’m just curious because the only example of a guy with a ring I know is Eddie, and I’m not giving her a silver demon thing, nope, not ever.”

Eddie learns two things this way.

First: Steve doesn’t have clear preferences for jewelry, he is all for “seeing the thought behind it”. Eddie wonders if Steve realizes how many thoughts he has and not all of them are ring-worthy.

Second: Steve thinks having an engraving on the inside is the most romantic thing ever, even something simple can become so personal and touching. What should the engraving be? Robin doesn’t know.

The next weekend comes and Eddie drives back to Indy again (Wayne is covering for him, telling Steve he asked Eddie to run some errands for him) and he’s better prepared this time. He chooses a simple gold ring with a yellow stone, just a small one, almost invisible, but Steve’s sweater is always on his mind, so it’s a good choice. He thinks about the engraving too, and his list is, in hindsight, atrocious, and he might have written it when seriously sleep-deprived, but still. He cringes at his own handwriting.

To my Ozzy

You’re so metal, baby

I tolerate basketball for you

To my only reason why 1986 was good

Get a mug collection with me?

But there is just one that Eddie sees and thinks , this is it . So when the nice lady asks him what to engrave, he hands her a paper with his messy handwriting that simply says:

You’re my home, Stevie

The moment of elation and victory is short-lived. She asks him for Steve’s ring size, and well. He should have probably found that out, shouldn’t he?

He promises to return to the shop as soon as he knows. On his way back, he tries to figure out an inconspicuous way of measuring Steve’s fingers.

Once again, Eddie sucks at being inconspicuous.

He tries wrapping a measuring tape around Steve’s finger when they’re asleep. That nearly earns him a smack in the face with Steve’s bat because he’s a light sleeper and forever scarred by their Upside Down adventures. At least Eddie manages to persuade Steve that it was just a piece of his pajamas stuck on Steve’s finger so he doesn’t question the weird feeling that woke him up.

He practices measuring by touch and holding Steve’s hands a lot. The margin of error is in centimeters, so he gives this idea up pretty easily. He blames it on not having enough time to practice, of course.

He (inconspicuously, of course) wonders aloud whether his hands are larger than Steve’s. They place their palms against each other, notice that Eddie’s fingers are slimmer and longer and Steve’s are shorter and stronger, but otherwise? Not helpful.

The breakthrough finally comes when Eddie actually volunteers to wash the dishes for once, but asks Steve to hold on to his rings. He places them on Steve’s fingers and notices with barely contained excitement that yes, one of his rings actually fits Steve’s ring finger (some shuffling around was required, “I don’t want to lose any of the rings, Steve, they need to fit very, very precisely!”).

Eddie has his answer now. He ties a small ribbon to the ring so he doesn’t forget which one it is, basically races to Indy again after calling Wayne and using the agreed code word to have his uncle send him to run some imaginary errands again.

He bursts into the shop, wheezing and holding the ring between his fingers. “This big!” he chokes out and collapses against the counter while the shopkeeper (Margaret, they’re on first name terms now since he’s been ring shopping for around a month) hands him a glass of water.

“Your Steve must be pretty special,” she smiles at him, and Eddie’s brain short-circuits because Indy is better, but definitely not accepting, and this lady has been so nice, has he blown it? Has he ever mentioned he has a boyfriend? Shit, he must have…

He opens his mouth like a fish several times. “Uh…m…Stevie…is, yes?” he says and prays he’s not going to get kicked out in the next twenty seconds. “The…the stone reminds me of him. He’s like a ray of sunshine.”

Margaret just laughs and refills his glass. “Good for you. It’s nice to see someone have the courage. I wish I had it in my day.”

Eddie is laughing with her now, the water surface in his glass is swaying from side to side and tells her, “Your day isn’t over, it’s never over until we’re done breathing.” She gives him the kindest smile anyone outside of his found family has ever spared him. It keeps him warm on his way back to Hawkins.

He picks up the ring in three days, he can’t wait any longer, and Margaret is kind enough to get the engraving as a priority. She meets him outside of the shop in the evening, hands him the small blue velvet box and grasps his hand before letting go. “Go make that handsome young man happy,” she says and Eddie has never promised to do something so easily and so fast.

He stashes the box in the drawer with his formal wear and waits for the perfect opportunity. That resolution lasts him for about one week because another thing Eddie sucks at is being patient. On top of that, Eddie knows in his heart that Steve has had a lifetime of grand gestures and pretend perfection. Sure, Steve deserves all the romance and luxury Eddie can afford, but if he says he’s even happier in their cramped home, on their old bed, with the constant DIY projects, homemade meals, and bad movies rented from Family Video, Eddie will respect that. Hell, Eddie loves that.

They’re cuddling together on a sofa, dishes unwashed and piled up in the sink, and the latest B-list sci-fi movie playing on their small TV. Eddie’s holding Steve’s hand again and he traces his fingers, feels the bare skin and realizes – this is it. This is when I do it.

He kisses Steve and promises he’ll be right back, he just needs to quickly take a note of something for the next campaign. Eddie doesn’t even try to conceal the rush he’s in, he dives into their bedroom and completely destroys the fragile order in his drawer to get to the priceless box. His hands are shaking, but he’s determined, he opens the door again, slips into their living room and-

And Steve is there, smiling at him like his own personal ray of sunshine, a bit shy but radiant, just as he always is. And in his hand-

“No way,” chuckles Eddie and inspects the blue box Steve is holding to confirm that yes, it bears the logo of Margaret’s shop. “When did you get to Indy?”

Steve takes a step closer and tucks Eddie’s unruly hair behind his ear. “Let’s just say I skipped some basketball practices. And before you ask, yes, I had to use blackmail to keep Sinclair quiet.”

“Oh?” Eddie’s cheeks hurt from smiling so much, but he can’t help it. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing big. Just that I still have the list with potential date ideas with Max he forgot at my place and I’m holding that hostage. Now, I believe I have a question to ask. And…” he looks down at Eddie’s trembling fingers, “maybe you do too?”

Eddie kisses him, short and sweet. “That depends, are you going to say yes?” It’s playful, but there’s also a hint of insecurity, the fear that Steve managed to weaken but never truly destroy. And maybe it’s the coward’s way out, but Eddie needs to know if he’s right in thinking Steve wants this too, if maybe he just got the ring because he wanted to make Eddie happy or assumed that’s what Eddie wanted. Which duh, he does, but this is not about

“I told you, Eddie,” and Steve’s hand is back on his cheek, stroking it, grounding Eddie. “I will never break your heart. And I trust you so much that I want to give mine to you. If you’ll have it.”

He leans his forehead against Steve’s, smiling at the ridiculousness of the question. “If I’ll have it? Stevie, I do. So much. I will cherish it, polish it, even dust it because I know you love everything to be clean.” Steve snorts, but Eddie continues, determined to finish his improvised speech. “I know it’s not the life you thought you’d have. I can’t give you a real wedding, kids, I can’t even kiss you in public. And I know it doesn’t change much between us, but I just want to give you this. I want to give you a real promise that your heart is safe with me, just like mine is safe with you. And it will always be.”

They exchange their “yes” between kisses, and when they catch their breath, the rings follow. Steve loves his, of course he does, and he tears up at the engraving, but then Eddie sees his own silver band and notices something written inside too.

I will follow you to Mordor, Eds.

“You remembered,” he whispers as Steve pushes the ring onto his finger. “You don’t even know the books and you remembered.”

Laughing, Steve shakes his head. “Don’t give me too much credit. I had to badger Dustin to tell me what you said during that spring break. I…I just thought it’s fitting, you know. It was fucked up, cruel and painful, and yet…I’d go through all of it again, just to be with you here.”

Crushing Steve in a hug, Eddie knows exactly how he feels.

The next morning, Eddie actually wakes up early. He manages to leave the bed without rousing his fiancé, Jesus Christ, he’s never going to get used to saying it or seeing the ring on his finger. Sneaking towards the phone, he finds his wallet and the card that Margaret gave him, and when she picks up, he doesn’t even give her a chance to announce her name.

“Hello Margaret, my dear,” he drawls, “when were you planning to tell me that you know Steve too?”

He can hear her chuckling. “Well, dear. I thought me saying that Steve is handsome implied it?”

“Oh.” Eddie isn’t entirely speechless, but it’s close. “So…how did you know it was…you know. My Steve? And not any other Steve?”

There’s a strange sound, possibly Margaret sipping coffee, before she responds. “I could tell you it’s the experience I have. Or that I had a hunch. But – he came in wearing a yellow sweater. A very familiar-looking yellow. And he said he’s looking for an engagement ring for someone who is non-conforming, passionate and loves silver, red and black. It wasn’t difficult to put two and two together, especially after he told me what he wanted engraved.” Another sip. “But that’s enough about that, what I want to know is – who proposed first?”

Eddie laughs into the phone and switches hands so he can admire the silver ring glistening in the morning light. “I’d say it was a tie. But hey, we both said yes. Thank you so much, Margaret, for all you’ve done. And, uh. If we ever get to have a wedding, you’re invited.”

“It would be my pleasure,” she says and Eddie thinks she really means it.

“Great, I will call you then. And Margaret?” He twirls the cord around his fingers, only sparing a second to form his thoughts. “In case you find some of that courage too? I can guarantee you a plus one, so be a brave lady and get one, hmm?”

Her laughter follows him as he hangs up and returns to the bed to join the future Mr. Munson.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie fanfiction #steddie fanfic

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