souverian-are-we

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Christmas Time at Gonzo's

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Grzegorz Pieniak (Polish, 1994) - Untitled/Red Shoes (2024)

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sometimes a theme recurs in your work without your permission. and sometimes it reaches a threshold where you're like. well now i think this is saying something about me against my will. don't know what though

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“𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐 𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆'𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔.”

Society of the snow (2023)

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Seinfeld – 4.20: The Junior Mint

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Day 23 - Kugrash and Sofia from the Unsleeping City

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I'm sick *cough cough*

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By Whose Stripes Were Ye Healed

Fic by @souverian-are-we | Art by @boxxecl

Rated Mature | 41k words

"Dr. Wheeler did not touch Reverend Byers on Sunday. He did not kiss him, even when they woke up in the same bed. Will woke up before the first light of morning broke the horizon, the gray hue of pre-dawn signaling the sun's imminent arrival. It would soon illuminate all the buildings of the small town of Hawkins, peeling back shadows and glinting off of window panes.

or, the year is 1887 and in a small town on the Kansas prairie, things go terribly wrong"

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Discussions of Death, Homophobia, Drug Addiction, Religious Trauma

Read on Ao3 | View Art

Read an excerpt below:

Dr. Wheeler did not touch Reverend Byers on Sunday. He did not kiss him, even when they woke up in the same bed. 

It was an unspoken rule, the one they adhered to every week without fail. 

Will woke up before the first light of morning broke the horizon, the gray hue of pre-dawn signaling the sun's imminent arrival. It would soon illuminate all the buildings of the small town of Hawkins, peeling back shadows and glinting off of window panes. 

Will had been awakened by pain in his hands, and knees. It had pulled him out of his dreams, blunt and throbbing and more intense than he had felt it in days. 

There was always something that woke Will up on Sunday mornings. He had come to conclude that it was the Lord calling him. However, it seemed as though he kept calling him earlier and earlier each Sunday. He didn’t sleep well on Saturday nights. Nerves, for his sermon the next day. Anticipation.

He came by Mike’s office last night for that exact reason. Or, at least, that was what he told himself. He was looking for something to help him sleep. He set aside the chamomile and baptisia tea his sister, Jane, had brewed for him, and walked a half mile into town as if it was the only logical thing to do. 

He got out of bed, shifting gingerly out from under the quilt. His feet met cold wooden boards, and he shivered. Mike was still asleep, with soft features and his mouth ajar, drooling.

He dressed, slowly, taking his clothes from the wicker chair. Mike must have picked them up from the floor and folded them after he fell asleep. He smoothed out the wrinkles, and fastened his high collar over the red bruises kissed into his neck.

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My @bylerbigbang submission with Ollie’s @souverian-are-we amazing fic! Go read it!

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NORTHERN EXPOSURE 6.06 Zarya

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“I wanted her to look at me…but she couldn’t pull her eyes away from you and your…stupid hair.”

AKFJSLJDKSJFKSJFKDKDKFJFJDKSKHFJFDS

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Redraw of the Jen and Kira scene but… yeah… yeahhhhh…

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Mike Wheeler in Sacrilege & Salt

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Sacrilege & Salt

Prologue:

September 1882. Detective Michael Wheeler is called on by a past flame to investigate a mysterious death in Moreshead, an isolated sea town at the end of a lonely cape. As secrets start to unravel and the suspect list stacks up, Mike finds himself descending further into the lure of his opium pipe and his burgeoning obsession with the enigmatic William Byers.

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