#sky of sinners excerpt
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hi ! if you’re looking for young (pre-canon, freshman steve/sophomore eddie) slow burn steddie with lots of yearning & sexuality crisis—then i would love it if you’d read the excerpt down below :)
it’s one of my favorite things i’ve ever written (& happens to be ch. 1 of my ongoing ao3 fic that is currently sitting at 10 chapters)
fic title: i wore his jacket for the longest time (link to the full fic down below)
pairing: steve harrington x eddie munson (steddie)
ch. summary: steve harrington’s 15th birthday bash is the greatest night of everyone’s lives, except for the guest of honor himself (who is in the middle of a panic attack) & hawkins very own freak (who really wishes he didn’t need the extra money). as fate would have it, the two end up finding comfort in the most unexpected of places (each other) and spend the night hiding away from the rest of the world on steve’s rooftop. nothing is ever the same.
TW: panic attack, use of homophobic slurs to insult a character (brief), themes surrounding sexuality crisis
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Part 1, Chapter 1: the great abyss
July 28, 1982
Eddie Munson is playing God or The Devil. He can never be quite sure on nights like this. The longer he’s kept up the gig, the more the lines seem to blur. It’s an odd job, but one he takes a sweet, sadistic pleasure in. Okay, so maybe that does make him Satan’s understudy more than a devotee of the “big guy in the sky.” But, who can blame him for seizing the opportunity to supply forbidden fruit to the poor sinners down below? There is nothing more gratifying than watching his heartless classmates tear each other apart from the gorgeous view of his twisted throne. All the while, knowing that the ensuing madness is a direct result of the vice-inducing treasures he stashes away in his aluminum lunchbox. And, to think he gets paid for it? He’d be a fool to let his already gray tinged morals prevent his sole form of employment. Especially, when said employment puts food on the table and delays his uncle’s need to apply for food stamps.
Usually when he “caters” events like this, the time passes quickly. It passes really quickly if those he’s dealing to aren’t complete assholes and let him partake in the festivities. That being said, after two years of high school, it’s become increasingly rare that he interacts with anyone that doesn’t respond to his presence like he’s a gory creature that just slithered out of the sewer.
It’s nearly comical. The ones that torture him the most in the halls of Hawkins High are also the ones that plead to him late at night like he’s the Fairy Godfather of Teenage Substance Abuse. He didn’t sign up for it, but more often than not, one jock or another is on his knees begging Eddie for a better price and just a couple more ounces of his drug of choice.
Eddie would be lying if he claimed the switched power dynamic of those moments didn’t give him a head rush and a mouthful of sick satisfaction.
He discovered he could name pretty much any price. Hawkins had a limited number of dealers and even fewer that would risk dipping their toes into the murky waters of selling to such a young clientele.
In true Pavlovian manner, all it took was Eddie undoing the clasps on his lunchbox to lure his prey into the trap. Suddenly, they would be thrusting their hands desperately into the deep pockets of their letterman jackets, in search of Daddy’s money to offer up for the exchange. The high he got from it was better than any strain his pale fingers might have rolled into a sharp tipped joint. Pure heady intoxication.
He rides that feeling until he’s wrung it dry in a perfunctory attempt to make tonight bearable.
It might have even been an effective tactic if he hadn’t been knocked off his high horse by Tommy Hagan and his squad of goons.
Eddie had hardly stepped through the massive double doors of Steve Harrington’s Loch Nora manner before he found himself pinned to the wall of the entryway. Hagan primally leered over him like he was tomorrow’s mystery meat and spit directly into his left eye. Gross.
“We’ll take it from here, don’t want guests scared off by the town freak,” Hagan wrestled Eddie’s lunchbox free from his white knuckled grip and made a show of emptying out its plentiful contents onto the pristine floor.
Eddie should have been enraged, should have lunged forward and put up a fight. But, as Hagan sauntered off with the stolen loot in hand, he couldn’t lift his gaze from the dark wooden boards beneath his scuffed Reeboks. He had the half-complete thought of what it might be like to slip and slide across such floors in those fancy wool socks he was certain Harrington had drawers full of upstairs. Wondered further if Harrington had ever known the struggles of a shotty heater and the lack of circulation one got from wearing four pairs of cotton socks to cope. Doubtful, he had decided.
Hagan hadn’t actually paid Eddie yet. Based on his reaction to Eddie’s arrival, it was vastly unlikely that he would be doling out the cash any time soon, if at all .
In theory, Eddie could have strode right back out the doors from whence he came and retreated to his side of the tracks, but he was viciously stubborn and had a bad habit of letting it rule him. Plus, Hagan had stripped him of his entire stash, which was not going to bode well for Eddie when Rick eventually sought him out to reap his portion of the earnings.
So, Eddie stuck around in hopes that Hagan would draw upon the miniscule shred of goodness left gnarled within his frozen heart and listen to the little angel poised upon his freckled shoulder. Again, unlikely, but if DnD had taught him anything, it was that anyone’s luck was subject to change even in the eleventh hour.
As it turns out, Harrington’s party looks just as repulsive from a bird’s eye view as it did on the ground. Eddie’s rooftop throne is admittedly a bit uncomfortable, but it’ll have to suffice for the time being. He’s not going to wait for Hagan’s change of heart out in the open. Lurking down below would only heighten Eddie’s chances of a broken nose and empty pockets. Eddie may be hard headed at times, but he’s not an idiot. He’s smart enough to know the deck will only be stacked higher against him if he accidentally pokes one of Hagan’s overly sensitive buttons. It’s a tripwire he’s not willing to trifle with.
Guests are packed like sardines into every breathable corner of the house and somehow, a line is still queuing up near the entrance. Girls in neon mini-skirts and guys drenched in cologne elbow past each other, willing to do whatever it takes to solidify themselves as permanent members of King Steve’s guest list.
Ah, King Steve.
How a rising sophomore that looked like something straight out of a Gap catalog had become a local legend was still unclear to Eddie. Not only was the guy popular, he had earned himself a royal moniker that somehow wasn’t used to mock, ridicule, or disparage him. Rather, King Steve was widely respected, admired, and adored by his loyal subjects. People worshiped the squeaky clean ground he walked on. His peers would practically throw themselves at his feet just to get a closer glance at his golden-boy smile and a whiff of his signature hairspray. Eddie really didn’t see the appeal, but maybe that was because people like Steve Harrington weren’t trying to make people like Eddie Munson part of their target demographic.
Eddie’s trying not to burn his fingertips on his silver lighter, a birthday gift from Uncle Wayne that he has yet to master. He can roll identical sets of perfect joints that rival the uniform efficiency of factory machines, but struggles to not flinch at the sight of a blue lipped flame. The potential to burn makes his hands shake and forces his tongue to stick out between his front teeth in itchy concentration. He’d never have a great career as a surgeon, but that was obvious long before he started smoking a few years ago.
Head tipped skyward, Eddie exhales the remains of the first hit and his lungs warm with an earthy heat. The touch of mother nature is soothing and brings him out of the present moment enough that he can focus on internally whispering the names of the few constellations he can remember.
Orion, Cassiopeia, The Big Dipper, and its’ little counterpart.
The trash pop music dulls to a mindless artificial hum of drums and synth with each consecutive hit he takes. He slips off the protective armor of his leather jacket, feeling safe and hidden enough to reveal the bare expanse of his forearms. Goosebumps prickle to the surface of his skin in immediate response to the summer breeze, but Eddie finds it grounding and doesn’t jump to reverse the decision. It serves as a fresh reminder that he’s a real person and not an inanimate object that Hagan and his lackeys get to smack around like a punching bag.
The joint softens him around the edges, encourages him to lean back on his elbows, belly-up and unafraid of what exists out past the infinite blackness of the night sky.
He’s lost in thought. The voices in his head curving in snake-like switchbacks this way and that, so at first he thinks the quiet grumble of someone clearing their throat might be coming from him.
Then, it happens again. This time, it’s followed by unassuming footsteps that clamber down the slope of the roof until they pause somewhere over Eddie’s left shoulder. Like the person is desperate to fill in as Eddie’s shadow now that his actual one has disappeared with the fully set sun.
“Oh, shit. Sorry, man. Didn’t realize anyone else was out here,” his shadow says apologetically.
Eddie’s confused. He makes a mental note to ask Rick if this strain is laced with something else. He eyes the dying joint suspiciously from where it is pinched between his thumb and index fingers.
He must have accidentally taken a hallucinogen, because there’s no other explanation for the timid, anxious tone coming from Steve Harrington’s mouth. There’s no other explanation for the way Harrington cautiously lowers himself to a hunched seat. The way he chooses to sit beside Eddie, like they aren’t part of two entirely separate spheres of existence.
It feels forbidden, Eddie thinks, like wearing the patches of bands you don’t actually listen to.
“Unless I’m mistaken or this joint has me really fucked up, I’m pretty sure this is your house, Harrington,” Eddie remarks, keeping his gaze trained on an imaginary point beyond the treeline that surrounds the wealthy neighborhood.
They’ve never had any sort of verbal exchange, but Steve’s last name snaps from Eddie’s mouth like a biting insult. He won’t do him the favor of using his first name. Not when his henchmen were so eager to sharpen the blade of the guillotine for Eddie’s neck only a couple hours earlier. It’s too personal, reserved for those that get to bask in the King’s good graces. Eddie isn’t under the delusion that he could ever soak up such glory by association with the boy sitting beside him.
However, he’s only human, which means that he’s not immune to the magnetic pull of curiosity. It goes against every fiber of his carefully curated public persona to take any interest in what King Steve looks like up close, but he can’t stop his eyes from wandering. His peripheral vision working overtime to track Steve’s uncertain movements, to follow the shaking line of his body as he sinks further into himself. Seemingly weighed down by a crown that has become too heavy.
“Dude, I was trying to be polite. It looks like you’re having a private moment out here and I didn’t want to intrude on anything,” Steve’s sitting close enough that Eddie can smell the faint sour hint of alcohol lingering on his breath.
It’s no shocker that he’s had a few drinks. Eddie wasn’t exactly hired to supply gumdrops and candy hearts at this party. The buzz of alcohol must be clouding Steve’s mind enough that he doesn’t realize the implications of being seen in casual conversation with Eddie. Not that anyone else has thought to join them on the roof, but it would only take one or two guests looking upwards from the crowded backyard to see the odd pairing hiding in plain sight. How would Steve explain this away?
“Well, dude,” Eddie mimics Steve’s locker room-esque fraternal lingo, “Forgive me for being caught off guard, but you’ll have to fill in the blanks as to why the belle of the ball has chosen to grace me with his presence instead of holding court down below? No offense, Harrington, but you don’t seem like the type of guy to give his company to a lonely stoner like myself just because it’s the charitable thing to do.”
Eddie still hasn’t allowed himself to fully take in Steve’s image. The corner of his eye has provided a jumbled puzzle of how all the pieces fit together. Eddie can see that a picture will form there, but can’t yet imagine the final result, so he has to go off of the limited information he has gathered.
For now, that’s a dorky striped polo that calls to mind what a cartoon captain might wear aboard his ship. The nautical navy hues make Eddie feel a little nauseous as if he’s the one out at sea. The buttons are undone half-way, which makes it appear that Steve is trying to achieve some sort of Peter Parker effect. Like, revealing an inch or two more of his chest automatically transforms him into the version of himself that’s a known party animal. The guy that girls swoon over even though he offers no promise of calling them up in the morning.
Other than that, Eddie’s thrown off by the quivering lip and uneven breaths that are making Steve’s polo-clad chest rise and fall in an off-kilter pattern. He thinks he’s imagining it or projecting his own anxiety onto the boy, but Steve’s breaths get louder and less easy to ignore. It sounds like he’s choking on the warm July breeze, itself. The exact one that had made Eddie feel so at peace before Steve had interrupted his sanctitude.
He bites his tongue hard before he says it, but the words tumble out despite his efforts to threaten them with the stinging consequence of physical pain.
“Hey, I’m sorry if that came off harsher than it should have, I didn’t mean to make you all emotional,” Eddie awkwardly spews and hurriedly brings the joint back to his lips.
Mostly, so he can have something to do with his hands to distract from the growing tension between him and Steve. He’s never known what to do with them in instances like this. If he should keep them to himself or offer them up as comfort to the other person. Harrington would more than likely knock him off the roof if he tried to do something stupid like pat him on the back.
A few beats pass before Steve explains the catalyst behind the increasing volume of his strangled sounds. It’s what one might think would come out of a wounded woodland creature, not the guy who’s destined to win nine out of ten superlatives by the end of his senior year.
Luckily, someone has decided the already blaring music isn’t loud enough. The recent increase further lessening the chance that anyone else would hear Steve’s small cries.
“It’s not you, Munson,” Eddie jolts at the idea that Steve not only knows him by name, but has elected to use it instead of one of the jabbing insults the rest of his group has assigned.
“I’m being a little bitch because of this stupid party. I never wanted it in the first place. Would’ve much rather gone to dinner with my parents or something,” he finishes and Eddie hears a mumbling thought exit his lips, but can’t quite make out the sentiment.
The mention of wanting after his parents strikes a chord in Eddie. It rings out clearly in the space between his ribs, akin to the clarity that washes over him in the aftermath of nailing down a particularly tricky riff on his guitar.
“Hm, what do you mean? Thought parties were kind of your thing, certainly hear about them enough around school,” Eddie says, finding that he wants Steve to elaborate and open the door to his private trembling thoughts just a little more. Just so Eddie can get a glimpse inside and maybe locate the thing that’s unexpectedly drawing him into the conversation with sparking interest.
Steve wavers again before answering, like he has to sort through an unforeseen dilemma. Like he’s at war with himself over needing a shoulder to cry on and wanting to swallow it all down and run in the opposite direction.
“I’m, um, kind of panicking? I don’t know what to call it, man. It happens to me sometimes, like I just freak out and start breathing all weird. Uh, today’s actually my birthday and Tommy H. made me let him invite everyone over to my house, like we were all going to celebrate or whatever, but I don’t think a single person has even wished me a ‘Happy Birthday.’ My Mom and Dad are on one of his lame work trips, so she can make sure he doesn’t cheat on her like last time. They haven’t even called and it’s almost midnight, so it’s destined to be another year of late apology money stuffed in a card signed ‘from, Mom and Dad,’ not even ‘love, Mom and Dad.’”
Eddie pushes himself up from his reclined position and finally turns his head towards Steve. He looks at him, really looks at him for the first time.
Of course, he’s crossed paths with Steve many times before tonight. In the halls of Hawkins High and around town running errands. The closest look he’s gotten has been when he’s done a deal with Tommy H. and any combination of the nameless kingsmen that all blur together and flock to Steve like he’s their shepherd. Eddie doesn't try or care to tell them apart, has no reason to memorize the repetitive nature of their names when they’ll shuck out the cash regardless. All identified by a last initial or physical trait that sticks out to him.
Steve’s been in the background in some of those instances. Eddie’s watched him from afar as Steve has waited for his skeevy sidekick to finish up. He appears untouchable behind the manufactured cool of his Ray Bans. Even when the clouds wake from their months-long hibernation, it’s impossible to ever tell where Steve is looking or who he is looking at, because his overpriced shades never get a day off.
So, this is markedly the first time Eddie has ever made eye contact with Steve Harrington. He lets out a small gasp when they latch onto each other’s gaze. Hopes that Steve will assume he’s only exhaling another hit, regardless of the fact that there’s no telltale trail of smoke to elicit such a conclusion.
Steve’s eyes are honeyed. That’s the only way Eddie can think to describe them. They’re a warm amber color that pulls him in with a hypnotic sheen that may or may not be the result of leftover tears. Though, Eddie’s pretty sure, Steve would never claim them if they were.
The shape of Steve’s eyes is another thing entirely. They’re downturned just slightly and Eddie’s never come across someone that takes up so much space and also happens to be so soft beneath the mask of his commanding exterior. Without the shield of sunglasses and with his attention fully directed towards Eddie, Steve arrives at the destination of his own youth. He’s much younger than he often portrays himself as being. He’s not some larger than life thing of myths and fantasies. He’s just a freshly fifteen year-old boy who hasn’t yet learned to deny himself the dream of gaining his parents’ love and approval.
And, Eddie? He knows something about that. Much more than he’d like to share, but Steve has just put into words the feeling Eddie’s been trying and failing to kill off for quite some time.
“That’s super fucked up,” it’s all Eddie can say without dropping his hand of cards and revealing what he’s been keeping pressed hard against his chest.
A memory strikes him and he’s reminded of the few times in his life that he’s felt really taken care of. For some reason, he won’t allow himself to begin to investigate; he has the odd desire to make Steve feel that way.
“This might sound weird and if it does, just tell me. No need to punch me in the face or anything,” Eddie is well aware that it is going to sound weird and probably, come off as way too intimate of a proposition.
“Why would I punch you in the face? I’m not a total asshole, y’know,” Steve counters defensively, still gasping for air like a fish out of water.
“Because of them,” Eddie gestures generally in the direction of the ongoing festivities beneath the roof, “Because Tommy H. fucking hates me and he made that very clear when he stole all of my shit earlier without paying a dime for any of it.”
“He did what? Wait, did he do that here, like at my place?” Steve furrows his brow like the little people’s complaints could possibly matter to someone in his position.
He’s being political, Eddie thinks, he wants me to be fooled into thinking he’s so “different” than them, so I’ll stay on his side.
“Harrington, let’s not play games. It’s sweet of you, really, to put on a face like my problems mean something to you, but we both know they don’t. It’s not like I haven’t seen you laugh along with the rest at my misery,” Eddie points out bitterly.
Steve startles, but doesn’t break eye contact. He seems offended by Eddie’s suggestion that he could be so callous, when it’s clearly an undeniable fact. Some are predators, some are prey. Eddie has unfortunately fallen into the latter category for most of his young life. It’s just the way things are. He doesn’t see a reason to dance around and sing songs of unity like Steve’s never stomped on his toes. Maybe not deliberately, maybe not on his own accord, but Steve’s definitely never been one to stand up and stop it from happening.
Before Steve can jump to defend himself again and swear up and down that he’s “not like that,” Eddie backpedals to his initial goal, which was to play the hero to Steve’s damsel in distress.
“It doesn’t matter, dude. Shit like that happens all the time when you’re someone like me. I wouldn’t expect you to know much about it.”
Steve nods slowly like he’s accepting the fact that Eddie has caught him in the act of deceit.
“But, let bygones be bygones or whatever. I, um, I’ve had panic attacks, too. That’s what they’re called, by the way. Panic attacks,” he says it a second time, so it can sink into Steve’s brain for the inevitable next moment that he will have to face one.
Sometimes, Eddie has learned, labeling a scary thing with a name gives it less power over you. If you bring the thing into the light of day, it loses the cloak of mystery and obscurity. That’s why it hurts him so much that no one, except his uncle, calls him by his first name; as if it's more fun to keep him in the role of the unknowable monster.
“Panic attack. Okay, so this is a panic attack?” Steve tests out the term in his mouth like it’s a foreign dish from some place half-way across the globe. Like he’s trying to get his palate to adjust to the exotic flavor.
“As far as I can tell, that’s what you’re experiencing. The heavy breathing, the gasping for air, the racing thoughts, the shaky hands; all pretty common panic attack symptoms,” Eddie explains, reflecting upon the first time his mom had taught him about the psychology behind the inescapable anxiety he felt whenever his dad entered a room.
“It kind of feels like I’m dying. Is it-is it supposed to feel that way? Do you feel that way when you have them?” Steve’s eyes are blown wide and Eddie is suddenly convinced that none of the fear is fabricated.
This isn’t some elaborate prank or ruse to mess with the school freak and embarrass him in front of the entire student body. Or at least, the portion of it that has achieved a social status high enough to be here.
“Yeah, it sucks. It literally feels like I’m going to have a heart attack when it happens to me. Sometimes, I kind of wish I would have one, so I wouldn’t have to deal with them all the time,” Eddie admits and immediately pinches the inside of his elbow, because he knows he’s said too much about who he really is.
It’s more ammo than Steve should be allowed to have, but here Eddie is, willingly giving it up to the guy and practically begging him to utilize the information in future torture campaigns.
Then again, Steve has provided Eddie with an equal amount of weaponizable information. The only difference is that everyone takes Steve’s word as truth from a higher power. By comparison, Eddie’s word falls flat as mere sticks and stones that would only ricochet off Steve’s impalpable form and backfire against him.
“There’s this thing though that my mom taught me,” Eddie finds it unnecessary to add that the woman is no longer in the picture, would rather let Steve wonder.
“It’s called ‘The Great Abyss,’ which is a badass name considering what it actually is. It’s a pressure point,” Eddie explains and Steve cocks his head in a way that conveys he doesn’t quite understand yet.
“Pressure points. They’re these little places on your body that can be used to heal all sorts of things. The whole idea of it came from ancient China, I think. They discovered that certain points were associated with all this internal stuff. Like there’s ones for getting rid of headaches and sore throats and even hangovers.”
Steve laughs at the mention of a hangover cure and the lightness it carries encourages Eddie to keep talking. Makes him believe for a second that Steve Harrington isn’t as closed minded as he originally seemed.
“Anyways, ‘The Great Abyss’ is on the inside of your left wrist,” Eddie grinds the butt of the joint into the roof’s shingles and tosses it aside so he can properly demonstrate,“There’s this hollow part, right here,” he leans closer to Steve to show him the spot beneath his thumb, where his palm and bony wrist meet.
Steve’s listening intently, like Eddie’s teaching a seminar on all of his greatest interests. If he had a notepad and pen to spare, he’d hand them to Steve just so he could relieve the intense pursed focus that has taken over his face.
“It feels weird, at first, because you have to get the hang of pressing down hard enough that it works. It took me a while to figure it out, so don’t worry if it seems like it’s not working when you try it. You hold down for a few minutes, no longer than five or you might pass out and let’s be clear, I don’t have the money to pay for any medical damages you may inflict on yourself,” Eddie smirks, but simultaneously, presses down with a moderate amount of force on his own wrist.
“And, if I was having a panic attack, the healing magic of ‘The Great Abyss’ should kick in right about now. You’ll feel your breath slow down and go back to normal. Then, with it, your heart rate will chill out and your thoughts should get noticeably less catastrophic,” Eddie concludes and releases the hold, throwing his hands up in a “ta-da” motion like he’s a magician who just pulled off an awe-inspiring trick.
Steve doesn’t say anything, just sits there frozen, so Eddie takes this as his cue to leave. Figures Steve probably won’t want Eddie staring him down if he decides to give the ol’ Great Abyss a try. He knows he doesn’t have the world’s most calming effect on people, so he hops to his feet and faces the window that he had initially crawled out of.
But, as he begins to scale the sloped roof, Steve’s voice yanks him out of the thick concentration he’s in the middle of, not wanting to fall to his death in front of a crowd that would applaud such an occurrence.
“Where are you going? I can’t do this by myself. Can’t you show me?” Steve says in a frantic tone, shaking more than he had been when Eddie was beside him.
“You want me to do the pressure point on you ?” Eddie clarifies, shocked that Steve would suggest they touch in any capacity, when the rest of his peers avoid even brushing shoulders with him or passing him a pencil in the back of a classroom. Like they’ll catch a disease from simply breathing the same slice of air.
“That’s what I was getting at, yeah,” Steve confirms and is quick to amend his statement with, “Unless that makes you uncomfortable or you have somewhere else to be. I’ll be fine, really.”
The conundrum lies in that Steve doesn’t look fine, at all. He looks miles from it. Stuck out in the barren wasteland of conflated fear and self-loathing. Eddie hates that Steve’s looking at him like he’s an oasis in the desert, like he can wave a magic wand and cure him instantly.
He hates it even more that he finds himself under Steve’s own spell. The same one he seems to employ on a daily basis to woo the likes of peers, parents, and teachers. Eddie’s transfixed by his boy next door charm, struggles not to find his suburban helplessness endearing. Like this is the first real problem he’s ever faced.
“Okay, sure, I’ll do it. It’s not a big deal,” Eddie lies through his teeth. He knows before he’s even sat back down next to Steve that this moment will very much so be a big deal in the trajectory of his life. It carries an undeniable weight.
With feigned nonchalance and a grimace to hide his racing heart, Eddie settles back into the world he and Steve have created for the time being. Population of two, location unreachable by anyone not in their strange anxious little club.
“When do your parents get back?” Eddie asks, hoping small talk will prevent Steve from noticing the emotions that have to be incredibly obvious on his face. The heat rising up the line of his cheekbones tells him so and he can’t exactly blame it on the alcohol he hasn’t consumed a drop of.
“Don’t know,” Steve shrugs and his tense shoulders almost hit his ears, “They never really tell me. I just see the packed suitcases by the door and know that means I’ll have the house to myself for the next few days, sometimes a week or two.”
Eddie nods, imagines how empty the trailer would feel if Uncle Wayne left for more than a night or two at a time. How empty it would feel if it happened more than once or twice a year. Even more so, if he lived in a house with so many vacant rooms and no one to fill them but his selfish peers.
Eddie was starting to see why Steve was able to get away with having so many parties and more importantly, why Steve would want people over all the time in the first place.
“Can I see your left wrist?” Eddie implores, breaking away from his own thoughts and half- expecting Steve to laugh in his face, like the suggestion that they touch wasn’t his idea.
Steve obediently pushes up the sleeves of his heinous polo and presents Eddie with his right wrist.
“Your left one, dipshit,” Eddie laughs good-humoredly. It’s hearty and he finishes off with a goofy snort, but then, Steve’s cracking up alongside him, so he figures it’s okay.
“Wow, it’s my birthday and I’m in the middle of a panic attack,” Eddie takes pride in the fact that he taught Steve something new when he hears him use the term again, “And you’re making fun of me for not being able to tell my left from my right. Pretty dick move of you, Munson.”
He’s still laughing and clutching at his abdomen. When he leans back, an inch of his tan, well- defined stomach is revealed and Eddie tears his eyes away before he can begin to consider why he wants to touch the line of skin that sits below Steve’s navel. He shakes his head back and forth in hopes that the thought will fall right out of his ear and become a corpse beside him.
“Okay, sorry, sorry. I promise not to insult your less than optimal ability to follow directions. You have my word,” Eddie swears, theatrically waving an imaginary white flag in one hand, “Now, your left wrist, please.”
Steve calms his laughter and glows from the aftermath of their banter. His cheeks are flushed and pink near the apples, but Eddie knows the ruddy hue must have more to do with the beers he no doubt chugged earlier in the evening than it does with Eddie sitting so close to him.
The correct wrist is now within Eddie’s line of vision. He reaches down towards the place where Steve has it hovering over his criss-crossed lap. He tries to pay no attention to the smattering of moles and freckles that dot the inside of his arm like they belong somewhere up above next to Orion and Casseopia.
They’re not holding hands, but they might as well be as Eddie circles Steve’s wrist and begins to apply mild pressure to the hollow dent he had described before.
Steve lurches a little from the initial contact, but quickly self-corrects and lets his lids flutter closed after a second or two, providing Eddie with his trust. An innocence paints its way from his chin to his hairline, as if he’s never participated in even the slightest of sinful acts. As if the minute touch holding them together isn’t the very definition of sin, itself.
“Just keep breathing, slow and steady. Try not to think too much and just focus on the feeling of my hand on your wrist. I’m going to hold on for the next few minutes, but if it hurts or you want me to stop, just say so,” Eddie instructs, trying not to feel too foolish about the hippie dippy words coming out of his mouth.
Steve’s eyes remain shut, so Eddie helps himself to another lingering study at the enigma of the boy sitting only inches away from him. This time, he compares the open palm of Steve’s hand to his own.
Eddie’s fingers are longer and bonier, knuckles jutting up through the pale overlay of his skin. Yet, he still has trouble fully encircling Steve’s wrist in his hand despite the falsely perceived advantage of his lankiness.
Steve’s palms are wider. Flat, firm expanses covered with the rough spotty texture of calluses formed from years of playing a laundry list of sports. None of which Eddie knows or cares to know the rules of.
Eddie’s hands are made for stretching across the keys of a piano and skillfully painting the smallest details of the figurines that adorn his desk. Steve’s hands are made for exerting force on a grassy field and shoving his devoted followers into their assigned places in the pecking order.
“Okay, you can let go,” Steve says suddenly.
Eddie rips his hand away, worried that he had gotten too sidetracked by his analysis and hurt Steve in the process.
“Woah, man, it’s cool. You didn’t do anything wrong. Honestly, that really helped. I just told you to stop, because I feel much better now,” Steve explains kindly, but Eddie’s tuned him out, because now, Steve has his hand resting on the inside of Eddie’s nearest bicep.
He’s rubbing his palm back and forth like Eddie’s a spooked horse. He doesn’t move away, doesn’t rush out now that he’s gotten what he wanted out of their interaction. Not like Eddie’s used to people doing. No one ever sticks around on his account, certainly not to make sure he’s okay.
And,no one has touched him so gently since his mom died. He wants to cry, can feel tears prickling in the corners of his eyes, but can’t find the courage to let them out. Not here. Not when Steve’s just made the incomprehensible decision to give him the rare gifts of kindness and comfort. Not when he knows that this means much less to Steve than it does to him.
Eddie indulges in the feeling for a minute more and the two sit in a mutually agreed upon silence, like they’re old friends and don’t need to fill in the gaps all the time. Like they aren’t afraid of scaring the other off by not knowing how to put their thoughts into words.
He looks down at Steve’s hand on his arm one more time and commits it to memory. For what usage? He’s not sure, but it feels important.
Once it’s safely tucked away, Eddie shrugs out from under Steve’s hand and says, “If I had known this was technically your birthday party, I wouldn’t have shown up without a proper gift, but,” he digs around in the pocket of his discarded leather jacket, “I do have a few joints, rolled by yours truly, that I’d like to give you for keeping me company up here and not being a total dickhead to me.”
Steve breaks out into a huge lottery-winner’s grin and accepts the joints from Eddie’s hands, tucking them into the front of his light-washed Levi’s, “Thanks, dude. That, um, that’s really cool of you and probably the only birthday gift I’ll get until my parents get home with the apology money.”
“My pleasure. Happy Birthday, Harrington,” Eddie smiles genuinely at him and wants to say more, but can’t quite figure out how to escape the confines of needing to appear socially normal and at ease in front of Steve. He’s never been one to speak his mind without coming off as offensive or dramatic, so he keeps it simple.
Steve reaches across himself and looks like he’s considering drawing Eddie into a hug, but he lets his arm fall into his lap instead, having thought better of the idea. Halting himself from crossing into a territory that he can’t come back from.
“I don’t really know how to say this and I don’t want to make anything weird, but-” Steve hesitantly starts and Eddie feels his pulse lurch into the back of his throat. He thinks he might die from the way he’s hanging on Steve’s every word which is slowly knotting a noose around his neck.
What did Mrs. Douglas call it his freshman year when they were studying ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’? A dark comedy? Plays and stories defined by sharp ironic scenes and gutting satire.
That’s what this has to be, because the events that follow are nothing but a sick joke to Eddie and he never gets the chance to hear the end of Steve’s confession.
Because Tommy H. shows up leaning his head through Steve’s bedroom window, like he’s Rapunzel and Steve is the Prince on the verge of coming to his rescue. Eddie has to cough out a choked laugh. It’s humorless, awkward, and makes Tommy sneer in his direction, but he can’t hold himself back from the dark hilarity he finds in the unfolding scene. The tragic irony that has befallen him makes him sick and hopeless, anew and erases any progress he thought he had made in the last hour.
“Harrington, what the fuck are you doing hanging out with this fag ? I’ve been looking all over for you. Whaddya get too drunk and confused by the long hair? He’s a guy, at least I think, hard to be sure when no one would ever dare get in his pants,” Hagan spits out each word with increasing hatred, never taking his beady eyes off of Eddie. It’s vulturous, as if he might swoop down and tear into Eddie’s flesh any moment just to prove his loyalty to Steve.
For his part, Steve leans away from Eddie to scramble to his feet and it cuts him to the core.
Had he really thought their one interaction would change anything about their dynamic in the grand scheme of things? Had he really deluded himself into a hole so deep that he could imagine a world in which they waved hello to each other in the school hallways? A world in which they ate lunch together in the cafeteria and divulged petty secrets? A world in which they eventually dropped the act and attempted to master the commitment to each other’s first names?
No. Because, he wasn’t Eddie to Steve. He was never going to be Eddie to Steve. He was that other thing that lurked in the darkness, scared people’s children, and got maced in the face simply for walking down the sidewalk.
The Freak. The Fag. The Queer. The Monster.
“Let’s go, dude!” Tommy whines at Steve’s clear reluctance to return the weighty crown to his perfectly coiffed head of brown hair, “Tammy Thompson told me she’d give you a blowjob, if you came out of your hiding spot to take a shot with her. She’s waiting downstairs.”
“Gimme a second, I’ll be right there,” Steve swallows past a lump in his throat and doesn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by the opportunity Tommy has just thrown on the table. Doesn’t lunge at it like some of the more perverted guys they go to school with would. Treats it like Tommy just told him there’s a ham sandwich on the counter for when he’s hungry.
His demeanor shifts in the direction of apathy. Maybe, even disappointment. But, that’s likely, because he has to go back to socializing with the exact people he was trying to run away from, not because he has to leave Eddie’s side and abandon his confession to hang in the air of what could have been.
Tommy H. ducks his head back in through the window, leaving the boys with a translucent brand of privacy. He’s tapping his foot on the carpet just on the other side and has his freckled arms crossed so tight he could easily break apart a watermelon if it happened to tumble between his chest and forearms.
Steve makes up his mind, eventually. He’ll give in to his subjects' wishes, grant them the company of their beloved figurehead. He’ll put aside the gnawing feeling of his remaining anxiety and drown it in as much of his parents’ liquor as it takes. He’ll let Tammy Thompson have her way with him, let himself pretend any of her touches actually make him feel held.
So it will be, so it always has been.
This is what it takes to be the King, Eddie realizes, the throne is not always a comfortable place to sit.
Eddie’s ready to go home, no longer cares if Tommy H. pays him or not. He’ll bust his ass to scrounge up the money through other odd jobs, like mowing lawns and washing windows. He just can’t be in the vicinity of this mess for a minute more, because if he stays and watches Steve get drunker and sadder, he knows he might do something he’ll really regret.
As he slips on his leather jacket, he almost misses Steve’s final words, which might have prevented him from falling prey to Steve’s charm again and again in the coming months. Unfortunately, he hears him.
Steve clears his throat, like he did when he first came out here to alert Eddie of his arrival. It’s subtle, but just as effective as it originally was at grabbing his attention.
Eddie looks over from his crouched position and finds Steve with one foot through the window and the other still firmly planted on the gray shingles of the roof; divided between the two planes of being. The person he wants to be and the person he has to be.
“I, uh, I gotta go, but I’ll see you around?” Steve says with an awkward lilt at the end, solidifying the fact that it is very much a question and not an assured statement.
“Yeah, I’ll see you when we get back to school,” Eddie replies quickly, not wanting Steve to think that he had assumed their paths could cross anywhere but the halls of Hawkins High.
“Sounds good. Bye, Eddie,” Steve salutes him with an upward nod of his strong chin and disappears back into the world in which people like them never even think about touching beneath the moonlight of a warm, July night.
#kissing u on the forehead for reading#steddie#steddie fanfiction#steddie fanfic#steddie angst#steddie fluff#steddie precanon#ao3 steddie#steddie ao3#steddie ao3 fic#steddie fic excerpt#steve harrington needs a hug#eddie munson needs a hug#eddie munson x steve harrington#gay eddie munson#gay steve harrington#bisexual steve harrington#steddie ficlet#steddie thoughts#steddie blurb
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Hazbin Hotel Fanfic
An excerpt from a longer WIP
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Alastor Centric. Not Beta-Read.
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New Orleans and Hell weren’t so different, actually. Hell was hot, humid, unbearable, perhaps, to a lesser demon.
Alastor had, ah, special training in such situations. Of course, it wasn’t completely the same. The nip of a Louisiana winter, snapping to a freeze overnight and then back to seventy the next day, was a trial upon itself.
The closer you got to the center of hell, or, in this case, where the ring of pride dared to almost cross the ring of wrath, the hotter, the more humid it became.
The more memories of home began to surface.
The more you started to regret the trek.
An understandable deterrent for most sinners.
Alastor stood in front of the unassuming metal gate. Unlike the majority of fences in pentagram city, where they had large spikes on the ends for deter nets, this one was smooth, polished, black steel.
The gate was open, welcoming, but the wafts of hazy, disillusioned air sifting through the divide was anything but.
Oh well, Alastor was never one to allow discomfort to keep him from his errands, and a troublesome chore this one was, indeed.
The overlord stepped through the gate, smiling brightly through the sudden burst in humidity. It was like stepping inside to the greenhouse Rosie built, which, to be completely candid, was an apt description.
This was, after all, the only complete garden in hell.
“Hello?” He stepped further on the property. “Anyone there?”
As Alastor stepped further into the garden, the more the harsh red gravel beneath his feet turned into crinkled brown grass. The sky of pride washed everything, from the already maroon roses to the white lillies in red.
In the distance, he could hear a stream, or, at the very least, moving water. Not so dissimilar to that of a slow river, but there was also a faint noise that was just barely noticeable. The water was moving erratically, oddly, as if some-
Ah. As if someone were swimming inside it.
“I don’t like to be kept waiting, you know,” he called out, walking slowly towards the sound of the stream. “I have a radio show to begin in about an hour! Time ticks ever more.”
A moment, two.
Alastor felt his eye twitch, his smile stretching even more.
How dare she-
“-you come into my garden,” a voice hissed, a whisper that did nothing to hide the rage. “And have the audacity-“
A vine launched itself forward, out of a nearby rose bush, and pierced itself against the other wall of greenery. Thorned leaves, dripping with a viscous yellow liquid, hung just a bit above the tip of Alastor’s nose.
Interesting.
“The audacity,” the demon seethed, an extended hand appearing from the edge of the hedge, towards the direction of where Alastor had assumed the stream was. “The nerve-“
“Well, dear, I can assure you that I would not be this far from Pentagram City if it was not warranted. Now, could you please remove your vine and step out, we can have a chat.”
The demon didn’t speak, the hand shaking minutely as the vines retracted, slithering along the grasses and towards the other demon. More vines joined the first, wrapping together and cooking like snakes in the bayou.
Finally, after nearly a minute, the demon strapped out. Alastor stared upon the grey skin of the humanoid. Most of the skin was covered by a floor length beige dress, the bottom stained by red mug, with sleeves down to the wrists.
The demon had long, dark brown hair that fell in ringlets around her face, and it was at that moment that Alastor realized the rumors were true, and the guardian of the Garden of Eden, protected by the overlord Zestial, was not even an demon at all.
Light radiated off of the woman’s flared wings, pointed and stretched, giving wind of her obvious stress.
“Ah, hello, Eve. My name is-“
“I know who you are. What do you want, Radio Demon?” She hissed.
Alastor began to take a step forward, but the coiled vines at the angel’s feet tensed again, waiting to strike.
“No need for all of that, dear, I am here to simply talk.”
“I don’t talk with demons-“
“-isn’t the definition of a demon a soul who is tormented by hell? And if you’re here,” he drawled. “Then you, miss Eve, are one of us.”
The vines lunged forward, thorns poised to strike. Alastor side stepped the attack, but they curved as they passed, causing his eyes to narrow.
Well that is a slight annoyance.
Alastor snapped, and his shadow lunged forward, cutting through the vines and stopping the flimsy attack.
Eve looked on, dismayed, her fists balled at her sides, and her wings flapped once, twice, just enough to throw herself up in the air- out of reach.
“You-“
“- I am an Angel! I am Eve, first woman, the wife of Adam-“
Tsk tsk.
“-Adam traded you for her- Isn’t that why you’re down here anyway? Damned to remember your sins by being cursed to this garden?” Alastor held up his hand, a tad peeved over being interrupted so much by the Angel. Her grief and obvious terror was not enough of a reason to be rude.
“And even then, it’s only been for the past, what, seven years? So, Miss Eve, it begs the question what in Lucifer’s name happened to curse you down here, and why she is up there.”
“I say all of this, dear, because it has become apparent we have a common enemy!”
“…Adam?”
“I have no use to talk of a dead man, Miss Eve. No, I am referring to Lillith.”
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A/N:
Welp. Should I continue it? I’d love to hear your thoughts.
#hazbin hotel#hazbin alastor#hazbin lucifer#hazbin lilith#fanfic#fanfiction#light angst#writing#writers on tumblr#writeblr#writerscommunity#writers and poets#ao3 fanfic#ao3 writer#work in progress#my work
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Excerpt from Deadmouth Quarry
Chapter 1
To be honest, Hell wasn’t all that bad.
Stories about it couldn’t do it justice. They missed the mark by leagues— or maybe they only referred to the places where sinners paid for their mortal crimes, or whatever the current rhetoric was topside. No eternal flames, no arctic tundras, no torture chambers. In actuality, Hell was nothing more than a sprawling metropolis.
It was also Sadie’s home.
There were, of course, the notable differences to the living world; namely, the blood red sun, which stained the sky in watercolors of orange and pink and yellow during the day, like an eternal sunset. At night, the same skies were a deep, velvety purple, swirling with celestial bodies that glittered bright white against it. Streaks of red tore through the fabric of the sky day or night, rain or shine. Sadie had come to know these tears as splits in time, where souls fell to their doom from every universe, every timeline, every reality.
The first time she’d had that particular conversation had given her a headache that had lasted weeks. She hadn’t bothered trying to understand it, afterwards.
To be fair, Sadie had it made: a pretty one bedroom apartment in a skyscraper on the scenic side of town, where she could watch the sunrise in the morning; a cushy job stealing souls for the big man himself; lovers at her beck and call.
After five centuries, Sadie was bored.
Wanna read more? Check out Deadmouth Quarry on Kindle Vella! (under my penname, Simi Sirenity)
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Dream of Elysium
WIP: Released.
This is a long excerpt of about 700 words, so get tucked in for this one.
Mallory opened his eyes to the feeling of rain on his skin. It trails a cold embrace and lingers on his lips, the taste hollow and metallic on his tongue. He blinks up at the sky, condensation gathering on his glasses, before dragging his eyes down to the dim lamp-lit street.
He tears his gaze away from the rain-stained tarmac, inky in the night, to the large red doors of Elysium Apartments. The cracked paint had looked charming in the daylight, but in this darkness it looms over him in an eerie and foreboding way.
The sound of static pulls him from the reverie that he’d fallen into, turning to look down the road. With a resounding clunk, the furthest lights away shut off, bathing the area in darkness, then the next, and the next, darkness creeping in closer and closer. Mallory shuddered, taking a step towards the apartment building, only to stop in his tracks as he looks up at it.
Suddenly, the doors to his home were...uncertain. They loomed above him menacingly, making him feel small, the way a sinner might feel before the gates of hell.
His heart, hammering away in his chest, found fear in the structure, a sudden sense of wrongness to look up at its geometric archway. Swallowing dryly, Mallory took a step back from his home, hands clenched tight by his sides as his lip began to tremble.
He could not explain in words what happened next. The closest approximation would be that the apartments...opened its eyes. It peered into him and, in the penetration of its gaze, ripped a piece of him open, leaving a hole in his mind.
Pain seared through him as his hand protectively came to his face, trying to block out the sudden flash of energy ripping through him. Muscles tense, he opens his mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.
In the next second he feels the apartments drag him closer, the lights of the street falling to impending darkness; leaving only Mallory, and Elysium.
He stumbles forward as though a magnet pulls him, creating a searing pain in his chest that burns through him, travelling to his mind and eyes. The sensation of burning overtakes him, before all his can see is blinding light.
All at once, he found himself lying on the floor of the lobby, soaking wet. His curls hung heavy with moisture, and his shirt clung to his skin with cold discomfort. Mallory sucked in a breath, exhaling spit and a heavy cough to the ground.
“Nice of you to finally drop in,” a voice echoes through the empty lobby, gentle but sarcastic. He peels his eyes upward in the same movement as a shuddering breath, to meet the eyes of Loralie.
She looks different, sat on the steps with a cup of tea in her hands. Her face is without the sort of mania that she has during the day, and her eyes look tired, she looks tired. “What’s happening?” He whispers.
“In general? God knows, and it wouldn’t matter anyway, you won’t remember when you wake up.” She sips her tea slowly, “...kind of sad, isn’t it?” Lora stands, her bare feet on the carpeted floor as she walks towards him, crouching before where he still half-lays shakily on the ground. “But I’ve unlocked you now, so we can talk here, and even if you don’t remember, some part of your soul will.” She gently tucks his curls from his eyes, her fingers trailing down his soaked cheek.
“Wh-what?”
“Sh,” she places the tea cup down and helps him to his knees. Mallory stares dumbfounded as her thumb brushes his cheek. “Right now, all you need to know is that I’ve waited a long time for you, but you’re going to have to wait a long time for me now.”
Confused, Mallory opens his mouth to speak. His heart thunders in his chest, wondering what sense could possibly be made of her riddles. But all the fear in his fluttering heart rate is silenced with his words as she presses a gentle kiss to his lips.
Mallory's eyes open in the daylight of his room. The sunlight swallowing every surface. He feels more well rested than he had in days, his body almost tingling with some odd excitement. He couldn't recall a part of his dream, but his heart still seemed to thud in remembrance.
--
Released taglist:
@gabe-killed-me-with-ace-cream
@drowsy-pyromancer
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★★★COMING SOON★★★
Rush & Ruin, an all-new addictive must-read dark standalone romance from USA Today bestselling author Catherine Wiltcher is coming July 8th and we have your first look!
Check out the excerpt here→ https://bit.ly/3mMZjep
Pre-order your copy today!
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3Mv0hXJ
Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/rush-ruin
From USA Today Bestselling author, Catherine Wiltcher, comes a seductive new mafia romance standalone.
My Protector. My Ruin.
Ella:
Edier Grayson is the King of Shadows.
A ruthless sinner.
A beautiful liar.
On the eve of my eighteenth birthday, he kissed my lips and painted the stars in the sky for me, but when I woke the next morning he was gone.
No note. No explanation.
Now he paints the streets of New York City red, and his heart is as cold as his promises.
Edier:
Ella Santiago and I were raised in this cartel life together.
I loved a girl with sunshine in her soul, until her father gave me two choices.
I walked away to spare Ella my fate.
Now she’s the one woman I can’t have, and the only woman I see.
Years later, we find ourselves in the same city.
I hate her for it.
My life is too dangerous, my obsession too strong...
I love her even more for it.
But Ella should know that all shadows crave light.
This is my world, and I’ll do whatever it takes to have her back in my arms.
The newspaper she works for? I bought it.
That date she made with a colleague? I crushed it.
I protect what’s mine—what's always been mine—even when she can’t admit it...
Even when my enemies are determined to break it.
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sky of sinners - chapter 14
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31/01/22 - Excerpt #1 - Bathtub Gods
As evening bleeds into the sky, so too does mist bleed into the air from the dying grass. Lit in blue, jagged branches silhouetted, shadow-spun vines grasping at the ground like fingers. Ieyren can’t be seen from here. Instead, what would be respite has been replaced with drunken debauchery: loud music, neon flashing lights, the strong smell of sweat and cheap booze. Grey-worn slats in an old barn— the slits between them offering a route for wind and for a game of hide and seek— now home to well over a hundred smokers, sinners, drenched in shame, all of them. And they’re moving, their grasp at guilt slipping, halfway to losing themselves just outside of an already lost town.
But there’s fresh meat. I’m salivating, blush pink at the back of my eyelids.
“Cigarette?” I call out, the first thing I’m willing to sacrifice for Vivian Abernathy.
Author’s Note: So, I told myself I would wait a bit before starting this WIP, and then immediately started drafting my next WIP. So, these are the opening lines of Bathtub Gods! Because I have no self control lmao
Bathtub Gods Taglist (ask to be added/removed): @reininginthefirewriting @catdragonartist
General Taglist (ask to be added/removed): @spirithold @andiwriteunderthemoon @perditism @hysteriwah @godknives @naps-tries-writing
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you already know I want to ask about literally ALL of those short stories but I'll limit myself to just asking about Saint Sweet Alyssum and Doctor Death and Magdalena?
Also ignore that i accidentally hit the unfollow instead of ask button. damn the tumblr formatters for putting this buttons so close together,, i ruined our mutualship streak :(
Kats!! Our mutualship streak!!
(i forgive you)
Okay so Saint Sweet Alyssum is about a world where all priests/pastors are angels, and it's about a small town with a low-ranked angel as the pastor and he's having a hard time inspiring his congregation. The MC is his one friend who helps him as he tries to help around the community and rally up some faith. Then one day our angel-pastor gets into a traffic accident and from the wounds in his arms flowers start growing. Which he takes a sign of the Divine and people in the town start coming to church just to see it and yes some of the flowers are sweet alyssum hence the title. Anyways his friend/the MC is concerned about him having these open wounds, floral or not, and later the friend finds out that actually the wounds don't just grow flowers they also grow weeds and thistles and the angel-pastor uproots the ugly plants from his wounds every day until something beautiful blossoms that he can show his congregation.
Excerpt:
Is that--” I reach out two fingers “--that leaf looks like poison ivy.”
He jerks the arm back. “It must have fallen in from the widow’s garden I was attending.”
“You didn’t answer me. Does it hurt you to have this growing from your body?”
His eyes shift away from yours. “Suffering is the loom on which saints are woven.”
“Oh, so this is about you getting some kinda celestial promotion? Get Saint Michael’s attention?” I shake my head. “I thought angels were s’posed to be above hubris.”
yes it's a bit like midnight mass except i wrote it before that show aired
And then Doctor Death and Magdalena is about a world where heaven was on fire and all the angels fell but in this world the angels are divided into three classes: warriors, worshippers, and messengers. And they can only ever speak one line of dialogue according to their class: warriors say "sinner repent", worshippers say "glory to God", and messengers say "don't be afraid."
The MC is a mortician and he finds a messenger angel (in his dumpster and busily eating the wings of another dead angel) and she only ever says "don't be afraid" and so he takes her to the angel hospital and he doesn't think that she's capable of emotions or emoting but he slowly starts to understand her. This excerpt does not show that bit of character development yet lol:
The third time I see Maggie is the following week at the cafeteria. It’s almost midnight and I’m running one of my late shifts. I go into the cafeteria and put a paper cup down in place at the coffee machine when Maggie comes up next to me, her face almost smiling. “Don’t be afraid.”
“Your little spiel doesn’t work on me,” I say, moving away. “In fact it has the opposite effect. When was the last time you were ever afraid? Do you even feel what we’re feeling? Do you know how terrifying you actually are?”
“What the hell, Nathan,” says Catherine, coming out from the bathroom around the corner. “You don’t have to like her but don’t be an ass either okay? She’s not hurting anyone and she’s trying her best.”
“You just like her because she’s useful to you,” I snap, grabbing a pack of granulated sugar. “They’re machines, Cathy, programmed to do one thing or break down. There’s no trying in there. And we don’t owe them anything. We didn’t ask for them to fall out of the sky.”
Catherine fixes me with a hard look before she leads Maggie away. “Neither did they.”
ask me about this
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How do one respond to "Catholics worship Mary and saints" argument?
I'm copying and pasting because I had a conversation a couple days ago with a real life friend about this. Sans some context.
youtube
"Hail, full of Grace, truly the Lord is with you" -Gabriel the Archangel, to Mary at the annunciation. It is also the first line of the Hail Mary, though we add her name between "hail" and "full of grace. Next comes us calling her blessed, as Elizabeth does when she goes to meet Elizabeth and John the Baptist leaps in her womb. And she directly says that Mary is blessed among women. The line in the Hail Mary is "blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus". Next, we call her holy, because that can by used as a synonym for one who is blessed. And she is the "Mother of God" because she gave birth to the actual person of God in Jesus. The next part of the prayer is this, the only thing not directly from the Bible and the only thing we "ask" of Mary: "pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death" The thing about prayer is that prayer =/= worship, but worship DOES equal prayer. As in, prayer itself is not indicative of worship. It is the state of the soul in meditation. Worship, however, is a type of prayer. The biblical evidence of Mary being a good mediator between us and Christ is that of the wedding of Cana, in which first they ask Mary what they should do about the lack of wine, and then she intercede to her Most Holy Son. The second evidence is that of historical though saint miracles, eucharistic miracles, and visions of the Blessed Mother, like Our Lady of Gudalupe.
We do not NEED Mary as a mediator, we do need christ. However, Mary, being Christ's Mother, is still a good mediator because Christ was completely human AND completely Divine
It can be hard to be humble and go to God Himself, because He is perfection Himself, and so He has given us His Mother as a mediator so that through her, we may come to Him and "do what He tells you[us]" John 2:5
And then I sent some videos mostly by breaking in the habit and fr mike schmitz.
There is no need in catholicism for a devotion to any saint or saints. If you feel that asking for intercession of a saints is not needed then do not. But asking the intercession of saints, who we know are in the full, complete presence of God, is for in ADDITION to our own prayers to God, the same as you would ask a friend to pray with you. But because the saints are already in heaven, their prayer and worship is heard even more by God because they are, relationship wise, closer to God
The only necessary parts of Mary and the saints to catholicism are the dogmas regarding mary: her immaculate conception and that she is the Mother of God, not just the Mother of the human part of christ.
The devotions to Saints are optional, and that's why there are so many different devotions
Much good formatting, thanks tungles
This is an excerpt of a sermon by Bishop Anslem in around 955-56: Blessed Lady, sky and stars, earth and rivers, day and night -- everything that is subject to the power or use of man -- rejoice that through you they are in some sense restored to their lost beauty and are endowed with inexpressible new grace. All creatures were dead, as it were, useless for human beings or for praise of God, who made them. The world, contrary to its true destiny, was corrupted and tainted by the acts of human beings who served idols. Now all creation has been restored to life and rejoices that it is controlled and given splendor by those who believe in God. The universe rejoices with new and indefinable loveliness. Not only does it feel the unseen presence of God Himself, its creator, it sees Him openly, working and making it holy. These blessings spring from the blessed fruit of Mary's womb. Through the fullness of the grace that was given you, dead things rejoices in their freedom, and those in heaven are glad to be made new. Through the Son who was the glorious fruit of your virgin womb, just souls who died before his life-giving death rejoices as they are freed from captivity, and the angels are glad at the restoration if their shattered domain. Lady, full and overflowing with grace, all creation received new life from your abundance. Virgin, blessed above all creatures, through your blessing all creation is blessed, not only creation from its Creator, but the Creator himself has been blessed by creation. To Mary God gave his only-begotten Son, whom he loved as himself. Through Mary God made himself a Son, not different but the same, by nature Son of God and Song of Mary. The whole universe was created by God, and God was born of Mary. God created all things and Mary gave birth to God. The God who made all things gave himself form through Mary, and thus he made his own creation. He who could create all things from nothing would not remake his ruined creation without Mary. God, then, is the Father of the created world and Mary the mother of the re-created world. God is the Father by whom all things were given life, and Mary the mother through whom all things were given new life. For God begot the Son, through whom all things were made, and Mary gave birth to him as the Savior of the world. Without God's Son, nothing could exist; without Mary's Son, nothing could be redeemed. Truly the Lord is with you, to whom the Lord granted that all nature should owe as much to you as to himself.
This one from St. Bede, a priest: "My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my savior." With these words Mary first acknowledges the special gifts she has been given. Then she recalls God's universal favors, bestowed unceasingly on the human race. When a man devotes all his thoughts to the praise and service of the Lord, he proclaims God's greatness. His observance of God's commands, moreover, shows that he has God's power and greatness always at heart. His spirit rejoices in God his savior and delights in the mere recollection of his Creator who gives him hope for eternal salvation. These words are often for all God's creations, but especially for the Mother of God. She alone was chose and she burned with spiritual love for the son she so joyously conceived. Above all other saints, she alone could truly rejoice in Jesus, her savior, for she knew that he who was the source of eternal salvation would be born in time in her body, in one person bother her own son and her Lord. "For the Almighty has done great things for me, and holy is His name." Mary attributed nothing to her own merits. She refers all her greatness to the gift of the one whose essence is power and whose nature is greatness, for he fills with greatness and strength the small and weak who believe in Him. She did well to add: "and holy is His name," to warn those who heard, and indeed all who would receive his words, that they must believe and call upon his name. For they too could share in everlasting holiness and true salvation according to the words of the prophet: "and it will come to pass, that everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved." This is the name she spoke of earlier: "and my spirit rejoices in God my savior." Therefore it is an excellent and fruitful custom of holy Church that we should sing Mary's Hymn at the time of evening prayer. By meditating upon the incarnation, our devotion is kindled, and by remembering the example of God's Mother, we are encouraged to lead a life of virtue. Such virtues are best achieved in the evening. We are weary after a day's work and worn out by our distractions. The time for rest is near, and our minds are ready for contemplation.
I should have added a page break but you know I'm not going to.
I then tried to convince friend of Catholicism with Fulton Sheen quotes so that's about where the convo about Mary has ended for now.
#catholic#catholicism#christian#christianity#tradcat#tradcatholic#traditional catholic#tradcatholicism#traditional catholicism#i think I also linked some brian holdsworth#i like him
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Chapters: 1/6
Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age), Isabela & Fenris
Additional Tags: Sebastian Critical, anti chantry, Past Abuse, religious trauma, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Summary:
"A great hymn rose on Valarian Fields gladly, proclaiming:
Those who had been slaves now were free.”
- Canticle of Shartan, 10:1, from The Dissonant Verses.
Elves are born farther from the Maker's light than humanity, and it is for this reason among others that Divine Renata I called for an Exalted March on the Dales. As a slave in Tevinter, Fenris was never given the privilege of faith, taught that his tongue was too low to sing the prophet's verses.
But Fenris is a free man now, searching for new faith. One that has space in its philosophy for elves, and slaves, and criminals. One that has space, even, for him.
This is a story about Fenris' relationship with Andrastianism, and the way that Sebastian Vael attempts to prey on his trauma. It is about abuse and institutional corruption, prejudice and freedom.
It is, of course, about revolution.
I am extremely excited to share with all of you this little fic about faith and freedom and revolution. I love it very much. Here’s an excerpt from chapter 1 to whet your appetite....
Anders unabashedly looms over the Seneschal, who glares at him for at least thirty seconds before apparently making the decision that it isn’t worth it, as he backs off and away. Anders turns to Fenris, wrinkling his nose. “You alright? Apparently the Seneschal has an elf fetish.”
Fenris’ skin crawls, but he nods and drinks more of his wine. “Fine. Where is Hawke?”
Anders hums, rubbing a hand over his freshly clean shaven chin as he does so. The shave has taken a few years off him, but Fenris finds himself almost missing the stubble. “Yes, I was wondering that. I haven’t seen him. Think he was doing something with the Duke’s son?” Anders looks down at Fenris and waggles his eyebrows, and abruptly Fenris remembers why he hates him. “If you know what I mean.”
“Must you be so willfully crass, mage?”
Anders’ eyes glitter with his amusement as the sky above them flushes pink with the sunset. “Only in polite company.”
Again, Fenris feels a laugh bubbling up in his chest, and again he fights to contain it. Again, he sees Anders’ eyes fall to his mouth, and watches a smile curl on the mage’s lips as they do. “Admit it: out of everyone at this party, the only person you actually want to speak to is me.”
Fenris huffs. “I would speak with Hawke.”
Keep Reading on Ao3
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In honor of @atlaocweek, here's a rough excerpt of a future chapter from the we all want love/we all want honor-verse, for Days 3 & 5: Heritage & Home/Secrets, featuring one of my favorite OCs.
Ever since the soldiers left, Ling's father had been spending a lot of time in his office.
Ling didn't really understand what the end of the war was supposed to mean. Could a fight that had gone on since his great-grandmother was a little girl really just stop like that? Rumor had it that the Avatar had been involved, but hadn't they just heard a few months ago that the last airbender died in Ba Sing Se?
But the soldiers had left.
The soldiers had been a presence in Gaoling for Ling's entire life, part of Dad's long ago deal with the Fire Nation, the one that had taken away the sister Ling had never known. He'd just thought they would always be there.
And yet, just two days after the brilliant comet had torn through the sky, all of the red armored soldiers had packed up and left, with an official notice to the local liegelord-- that is, Ling's dad-- that his contract with the Fire Nation had been broken, and Gaoling was no longer a territory of the Fire Nation.
And ever since, Ling's dad had been spending a lot of time in his office. Sometimes he had people in there, but most of the time he was alone, signing papers and scouring records.
It was because of Ling.
Well, properly speaking, it was because of his mother. Or, at least, his mother's family.
Five days after the soldiers left, Dad had called Ling into his office. When he'd arrived, Mom was there. Mom. Mom, who almost never came inside the mansion, let alone into Dad's office-- but who'd been over every day since the soldiers left.
The two of them had sat him down and told him they were thinking about getting a divorce.
Ling knew about divorce, of course. His classmates Yan and Lei both had parents who were divorced, and they had explained it to him.
(Divorce meant two houses, and Mom and Dad not being together, and a lot of other boring legal stuff Ling and his friends were too young to understand.
But Mom and Dad already lived in different houses. They had for as long as he could remember.
He'd asked them, once, after Yan's parents had split up, if they were also divorced. They'd told him no, and when he'd asked why, they'd explained about the family name.)
So when they asked him how he felt, he said he didn't mind, but what about his father's name?
"We've decided to dissolve the House," Mom had explained. "Do you understand what that means?"
He did. Their family had been the liegelords and ladies of Gaoling for hundreds of years. His parents wanted to change that. Which meant-
"Are you okay with that, Ling?" Dad had asked. "It's your inheritance."
Ling was the heir of his house. That meant he was next in line to be the Lord of Gaoling. (Unless he did what Mom had done, and married someone his father could adopt in.) Mom and Dad were, in essence, taking that away from him.
"Yeah, it's fine," Ling said. "I don't need it."
Being in charge of Gaoling had never helped either of his parents. He didn't know all of the details, of course, but he knew that it had been what drove his parents apart, put the wrinkles in his father's forehead and perpetual tears in his mother's eyes, and caused him to grow up an only child.
No one had ever told him that giving up the land entirely was an option, but as soon as he knew it was, he'd known that was what he wanted.
Dad had been a little surprised at Ling's quick response, but Mom had smiled, and Ling had felt a weight he hadn't noticed until then being lifted off his shoulders.
That was why Dad was spending so much time in his office, trying to make sure everything was in order before the divorce. He'd been working late hours and taking meals in there, which meant Ling was the only one in the dining room when the letter arrived.
It was enclosed in a canister on the back of a messenger hawk that had flown in through the window and landed on the back of Ling's chair.
Carefully, the boy had opened the compartment, curious about the flame emblem emblazoned on it.
The letter was sealed with a familiar mark-- the sign of the Fire Nation Royal Family.
Why are they writing us? I thought once the contract was
broken, we wouldn't have to deal with them again?
He was even more confused when he saw who it was addressed to.
To the Lord and Lady Beifong
Why would a letter for his mother arrive here? And why would anyone be writing to both of his parents, who hadn't lived together since Ling was an infant?
Now he had to know what it was.
Ling broke open the seal and scanned the letter, eyes widening with every word. Then he stood up and ran to his father's office.
Lao Beifong looked up as his six-year-old son came barging into his office.
"Ling! How many times have I told you-"
"Dad, Dad, you have to see this!" The boy held a up letter that was tightly gripped in his hands.
"Have you been reading my mail?" Lao sighed. Ling was a bright child, but far too curious for his own good.
"Well, yeah, but look!"
He took the page, expecting some news about the Avatar or the war or-
Lao gasped.
"Impossible," he breathed.
But there it was, in black and white.
You are cordially invited to the upcoming wedding celebration of Fire Lord Zuko and the Lady Toph Beifong.
- Excerpt from "why you're still standing by this sinner's side"
#avatar the last airbender#excerpt#future fic#ling beifong#lao beifong#atla oc week#we all want love#we all want honor#all queued up
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Excerpt from this essay from the Center for Humans & Nature:
People now openly talk about the recent fires as “apocalyptic” (meaning massively destructive), and it is worthwhile remembering what this word means and where the association with fire comes from. The Greek word apokalupsis (apocalypse) means both disclosure and a revelation. The Book of Revelation in the Bible is about the divine foretelling of disasters that befall sinful humans on Earth.
In Revelation, there are many references to the power of God via his angels to use fire to destroy all life. An angel allowed fire and smoke that turned the sun and the sky black to issue forth from the bottomless pit of a great furnace. Forests and green things were wiped out by “hail and fire mingled with blood,” and then, if that was not enough, human sinners were killed “by the fire, and by the smoke, and by the brimstone.”
Australia has become a “book” of revelation in that the fires have disclosed or revealed the powerful impacts of global warming to all who have been touched by the fire, smoke, and brimstone. The combination of record heat, a record drought, and strong winds has produced “unprecedented” wildfire. The bottomless pit has turned out to be global warming.
Ecologists estimate that over one billion vertebrate animals have perished and, clearly, trillions of invertebrates were consumed by the fires. Nothing on this scale and ferocity has happened before in the last three hundred years, even in Australia, a land well used to fire. The economic cost of these events will be in the billions, and the restorative efforts will be ongoing and may not succeed as a new abnormal landscape emerges.
As part of the ongoing “revelation” produced by the fires, there is the political fallout where, for decades, government inaction has been driven by denial of the basic scientific facts on climate warming. The political system has been corrupted by the influence of the fossil fuel industry to such an extent that it no longer represents the interests of the people of Australia. Politics no longer governs; it is governed.
The “closed system” of lobbyists—senior executive corporate managers, private think-tank researchers, retiring politicians, senior public servants, and the boards of directors in large corporations—contains members that have all become interchangeable. Their sole purpose is to maximize corporate shareholder profits (and their own) via donations to political parties, usurpation of the role of policy making, influencing election outcomes via social media, sowing “doubt” about science in mainstream media, and the old-fashioned forms of influence via brown paper bags full of money.
So bad is the corruption, I have called it “corrumpalism” after the Latin corrumpere, to destroy. While achieving success at maximizing corporate profit, the fossil fuel industry in particular destroys the social and biophysical foundations of humanity and all life on Earth. Ecocide is preferred over threats to profit.
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Whoops cringe culture is dead and I wrote a Hazbin fan-fic excerpt.
I mean, technically I wrote it back in November, but whatever. Am I embarrassing myself? Probably. Do I care? Marginally. Will I get over it if I just drink? Absolutely. Like what you like, cringe culture is dumb.
Description of hotel layout might be inaccurate, I hadn’t actually looked at the correct layouts for the place until after (thanks VRchat). Oh well. Also a little long for an excerpt but oh well!
———-
Leanne had died recently. Just about a year ago on the day if her tracking of time could be trusted. It was nearly impossible to tell how many hours, days, or weeks had gone by down in Hell. There was no day or night. Just the perpetual, sinister red glow of the pentagram symbol carved into the rock sky that encased every sinner inside this final destination.
Her tracking of time was rough, but she did suspect a year. A year of unending misery, anger, and confusion.
Leanne didn’t understand why she was dammed here. She died young, barely 21, due to circumstances she herself wasn’t ready to face quite yet. Thinking about it made things worse. Her death was an accident, and that’s all she felt comfortable telling others and herself.
She had truly believed herself a good person in life. Sure, she swore like a sailor, and perhaps told a few small lies in her years, but who hadn’t? She had never done anything with the intention of hurting anyone. Never done anything heinous enough to deserve...This. Sharing an afterlife with ruthless thieves, pedophiles, and murderers.
She often tried to cope by telling herself that the criteria for heaven was just impossibly strict. No one got in up there. One must have had to be a perfect cherub who never left their home from birth to make it on that list. Surely. Obviously. There was no other explanation.
Leanne heard about the Happy Hotel on the news like everyone else. She had been sitting at a bar with a mysterious substance in her glass for two hours, not taking a single sip. She would never choose to drink whatever liquid it was they poured into these mugs. She simply didn’t have anywhere else to go that felt any safer. A bar was neutral ground for demons and sinners. No turf wars happened here. You couldn’t die in hell, but you sure could feel everything, so she had been careful to avoid fights.
The idea of the hotel seemed ridiculous, an idea reaffirmed by the laughter that filled the building after the Princess of Hell, Charlie, had given her foolishly passionate speech. A place sinners could go to better themselves? A second chance at redemption? Yeah, right. No one got second chances down here. Your one and only chance was the life you lived. How ridiculous. How absolutely insane. Impossible! Leanne thought all of these things as she hurriedly paid for her drink with the pocket change she had, gathered her tattered coat, and headed for the door.
It could never work. You didn’t leave hell once you got here. There was no way. But...maybe. Just maybe. Leanne didn’t belong here anyway, right? So going through this “program” at the Happy Hotel could actually (but probably not) make things right. She could explain to her majesty that there had simply been a mistake anyway, so staying at the hotel would just be a formality until it was all resolved. That’s exactly what would happen once she arrived. It would have to.
———
Leanne’s doubt only grew the closer she got to the hotel itself. On her way, she had passed by a group of Demons huddled by a radio, listening as closely as they could to the static ridden channel. It seemed the Princess had more to deal with than folks around here laughing at her ideals. She had gotten into a fight with Katie Killjoy, the news anchor on the station. It had started with what sounded like more laughter at her idea, then yelling, then what could only be the sounds of a smack-down.
Leanne drew in a deep breath, let it out with a grimace, and kept walking. It would probably take her a while still to reach the building. Two days, maybe more, but it’s not like she had anywhere else to be.
———————-
When she arrived at the towering building, she was both surprised at its sheer size and confused with the sign alight on top. The bright bulbs held up by wooden frames read “Hazbin Hotel”. Leanne could’ve sworn Princess Charlie had said it was called the Happy Hotel.
She glanced in all directions to see if she had missed anything. Though, based on the fact that this was the only building standing for miles of this size, and the only hotel she knew of that existed in Hell in general, she had to assume she had the right place.
Once she walked up to the front doors, Leanne’s hesitations nearly took over her. Behind those doors, decorated with stained-glass images of apples, was either the solution to all her woes, or the confirmation that she had, in fact, been sent to the right place. And that there was nothing anyone could do about it. Proof that she belonged in Hell.
She touched the golden handle with a hand that had once been human. She closed her eyes, hating being reminded of what her body was now. Her once delicate hands with smooth, human skin had turned into a dark blue, scaled and clawed nightmare. Spreading across her temples now were the same colored scales, and right above her ears now sat a pair of wicked, black spiraled horns. Her nose that she had hated so much in life now looked more akin to a bear’s. Her skin that had once been a healthy tan, now a dull grey, lifeless in hue. A long and thick lizard like tail nervously swished behind her. Even though Leanne was a beast, she supposed she had been more fortunate than others. Most of the dead down here you’d hardly recognize as anything that had ever been human. At least Leanne got to keep her basic human shape.
Enough thinking. Leanne pushed open the door and was met by the smell of an old floral perfume and the sound of a charming tune playing on a piano somewhere deep within. She had stepped inside and waited to hear the door click behind her before opening her eyes once more.
Once she did, Leanne was amazed, frozen in shock for a moment. The place was impossibly clean, practically immaculate. Not a single spec of dust, cobweb, or splatter of blood in sight. The long hallway in front of her seemed to stretch on for half a mile, painted comforting shades of deep red with gold trimming. It was far too nice to be a place in Hell. Leanne even noticed how the temperature was the most comfortable she had felt since she died. Warm enough that she could take her coat off, but cool enough that she wouldn’t sweat with it on.
Dozens of portraits of Princess Charlie, her family, and their associates covered the halls. Leanne stepped over to a painting of who she assumed was Charlie’s father. The name etched into the wood frame at the bottom read “Lucifer~1789”. He looked friendly enough for the ruler of hell. Very pale skin, deceptively rosey cheeks complimenting a charming smile, well coiffed blonde hair, and deep black eyes. He looked so much like the images Leanne had seen of Charlie.
She moved on from the picture, searching for any kind of check-in desk, not quite brave enough to call out for assistance. The first opening to her left thankfully read “Concierge” above the open door frame.
Inside the room were a few old, but comfortable looking chairs that sat empty strewn about, a fire place to the left radiating a calming glow, and at the far end of the room was the concierge desk. Three deer skulls hung on the wall above the desk’s canopy, and below them three signs that struck Leanne as very odd. The middle read “Welcome!” while the two on either side read “Gambling!” and “Booze!”. Wasn’t this place supposed to be about avoiding sin? Maybe they were just a gag.
Leanne couldn’t see anyone at the desk. She saw a silver call bell and instinctively went to ring it, her hand stopping to hover over it. She suddenly thought about bailing right then. There was no guarantee that this place could help her. No knowing for sure if the Princess was even really looking to help anyone. She could just be looking for souls to collect. This whole thing could be a trap-
Her thoughts were cut off by the sound of the bell she had tapped without realizing. She heard an annoyed groan from underneath the counter.
“Fuck, what? I already wiped down the god damn counter.” A demon with a husky voice pulled himself to a standing position to face Leanne. He looked like some sort of cat and owl hybrid. Mostly grey fur with a white face and chest. He had large eyes with dark red scleras and yellow irises, long red eyebrows that extended off his face on either side, an amusing heart shaped nose, and lovely red wings protruding from his back that had what appeared to be card suit markings along some of the feathers. Between his two tall and slender feline ears sat a top-hat of equal height, and a black bow tie rested in the fluff of his chest. He looked at Leanne for a moment in confusion. She couldn’t find the nerve to say anything. He croaked out, “Well, you’re not my boss. You here to check in?”
Leanne felt her tail nervously wrap around her waist as she fiddled with her hands at her chest. She opened her mouth to speak, but instead only quietly cleared her throat and nodded.
The cat-owl demon raised an eyebrow at her before producing a clipboard and pen from the drawer in front of him, “I’m gonna need your name first, lady.”
“Uh..I-It’s, um..Lee. Leanne.” As the man started writing her name down on the paper, Leanne’s head suddenly exploded with questions.
Wait! How does this all work? Was she going to need to tell him how she died? Confess her sins? Would there be some kind of test to see if she could stay? She remembered she had no money. How was she going to pay for this? Had she thought anything through at all!?
Just as Leanne sucked in a panicked breath to tell the other demon to wait, both of them jerked their head towards the sound of a squeal in the doorway. A young girl stood there wearing a white button up shirt with black suspenders, and a smile Leanne thought didn’t belong down here. She was very pale, with beautiful rosey cheeks complimenting a radiant smile, long and well kept blonde hair, and deep black eyes.
Princess Charlie rushed over to Leanne in the blink of an eye. She practically bounced as she spoke, taking Leanne’s hands in her own, “Are you checking in?? Please say yes!”
“Y-yes! Uh, I mean..I-I think so? I would like to?” Leanne bit the inside of her cheek. She’d ramble on forever if she didn’t get a grip, “I-Um. I just have a few questions.”
“Of course! Whatever you need we are here to help with!” Charlie let go of Leanne’s hands and snatched the clip board and pen from the other demon. He grumbled, but didn’t seem too bothered to have his job done by someone else. “What was your name?”
Charlie’s infectious positivity made it impossible for Leanne not to give the faintest of grins, “It’s Leanne, your..majesty? Highness? Princess?” Leanne had no idea how to address royalty of such a place as Hell. It didn’t help that Charlie seemed so different than what she reasonably should be.
The demon princess laughed without a hint of malice, “Just Charlie is fine, Leanne.”
Charlie was madly writing unknown information down on the clip board, and Leanne couldn’t help but notice the other demon eyeing her suspiciously. She tried not to make eye contact, just wishing for Charlie to talk again.
“Okay! Since you are one of our first patrons,” her voice shifted into a sing-song tone, the friendliness a sound Leanne didn’t know she had been craving until this moment, “I put you in one of our sweets!~ Room 331.”
“U-Uh, sorry, but I don’t have any money.” Leanne pulled her hands back to her chest, her tail tightening ever so slightly. She laughed joylessly, “I didn’t really come prepared for this, I guess.”
Charlie tucked the clipboard underneath one arm and took Leanne’s arm in the other, “Well then it’s a good thing you don’t have to pay for this! Husk, hand me her keys please?”
The husky voiced demon who now had a name went to the wall of keys behind him to find 331, tossing them to Charlie when he did.
Leanne was about to speak when Charlie tugged her along to the doorway and out into the hallway. The princess was pulling her toward the sound of the piano, “You’re going to LOVE it here! I’m so happy that my little, ahem, argument issue on the news didn’t keep you away!”
“Right.” Leanne didn’t have the heart to tell her it almost did. “S-So, uh, the questions that I had?..mainly about how I pay for this-“
Charlie held up a hand to silence Leanne, letting go of her arm to lead rather than pull, “You don’t! As long as you are showing progress towards your goal of redemption, you don’t owe anything! Just keep showing us your best behavior! Sound fair to you?”
“Sure,” Leanne tried to sound trusting, smiling the best she could remember how to, “Sounds fair.”
They had finally reached the source of the piano music. It was coming from behind two heavy doors with ‘Ballroom’ written on a sign above them. Along with the instrument, a voice could now be heard. It sounded as though someone was listening to an old 1930s radio host singing a song while playing along to it.
“I’m going to introduce you to my co-manager. He’ll be excited to see we have a second patron!” Charlie sang and pushed the doors open while Leanne thought about how there were only two guests in this ginormous place.
“Alastor, we have a new guest!”
The music stopped abruptly as Charlie spoke, and the one playing the piano stood from the bench and turned towards the two she-demons.
Leanne was terrified of him. Instantly and morbidly. Something about him sent a sub-zero chill down her spin that then went cascading out through her limbs. Her hands felt numb, her mouth felt dry, her head swimming. It was not unlike the feeling right before you wake from a terrible, horrific nightmare. Her tail coiled back around her waist as she tried to calm herself
Alastor was very tall, handsome, and incredibly thin. He wore a deep red pinstriped suit with a black tie in the shape of an upside down cross. His hair was shaggy, red on the top with a line of black around the bottom. Atop the Demon’s head were two small deer antlers, along with two tall tufts of hair that looked like they could be deer ears, matching red with the rest of his hair and tipped black on top.
His eyes were huge, dark red sclera with light red irises. His smile was even bigger, sharp yellow teeth stretching sinister from ear to ear. His skin was a grey similar in dullness to her own. He adjusted the monocle in front of his right eye as he looked over Leanne. His eyes glowed dimly.
Alastor suddenly threw his arms up in an exaggerated show of glee, “That’s wonderful news, my dear!”
His voice was the host Leanne thought she’d heard before. The demon spoke with a transatlantic accent, and it sounded as if there were an old radio transmitter in his throat. “The more the merrier as they say!”
He stepped forward, the sound of tap dance shoes clacking against the floor accompanying his footfalls. Leanne wanted to run away from him. Her mind was screaming at her to leave, forget this whole idea, and never come back. However, her body wouldn’t cooperate and Alastor had an arm around her and Charlie’s shoulders before she could do anything anyway, “We’re so delighted to have you, sweetheart! This place has been so very dull lately with just the few of us mucking about!”
He seemed friendly enough, so what was it about him that made Leanne’s heart feel like it was going to pound out of her chest? She hated him. His energy felt...bad. Wrong. Dangerous. She’d never felt worse about anyone, and that included the other demons she’d met down here. Her hands had gone from numb to sweaty, and yet she felt terribly cold now. This fear was all consuming, and it was touching her shoulders.
“So, what’s your name, mystery doll?” He tilted his head in the most uncanny way, staring down at her with sharp teeth and eyes unblinking.
Leanne’s tongue felt like a lead brick in her mouth, “I..uh...I-It’s-I’m, uh-“
Charlie gave a concerned chuckle, “Her name is Leanne.” She slipped out from under Alastor’s arm and gently touched the other girl’s shoulder, “Are you okay?”
Leanne was thankful to look at Charlie instead of him, and even more so to feel Alastor’s arm drop away from her as he took a step away.
“Y-Yes. Sorry. I’m just..” She glanced at Alastor, and instantly regretted it. His eyes were focused hard on her, his grin wide and full of teeth. Leanne could tell he knew she was feeling this way, “I just, um, g-get nervous around new people. That’s..that’s all.”
Charlie opened her mouth, but Alastor boomed over her, “Well that’s perfectly fine, sweetheart! I was being rude anyway. My name is Alastor, and I’m the co-manager of this fine establishment! I’m sure being here long enough will help you burst right out of that pretty shell of yours!”
“Yes it will!” Charlie clapped her hands together with a little hop, “We have so many activities planned for everyone who comes to stay here! Ice breakers, games, classes, you’ll never be bored and you’ll never not have people to talk to!”
“Assuming more folks do come by, of course!” Alastor added smugly, causing Charlie to shoot him a look.
“More will come, Al. Have a little bit of faith.” She walked passed Leanne to the door way, “If you follow me now, Leanne, I can show you to your room!”
“O-Okay.” She didn’t need to be told twice, grateful to get away from that radio-voiced Demon. She went to follow the princess out the door.
“I can already tell by looking at you, dear.” Alastor started, causing Leanne to stop for a moment. She wouldn’t look back at him. The static in his voice cleared as he spoke, “You’re going to be a very entertaining guest.”
#would it take two days to get to the hotel? idk#idk how big hell is#just needed to give it enoigh time#for the interview to be over and for Nifty to clean and everyone to settle in and shit idk#not mich thoight went into this#shut your trap snippy#my writting#hazbin hotel#alastor#charlie#hazbin#HH#Hazbin fanfic#fanfic#hazbin alastor#hazbin charlie#hazbin husk#hazbin OC#OC#long post
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there’s always adam: a good omens fanmix
songs for a nascent antichrist, partially arr. by brian may, lead guitar, queen
[[here on spotify]]
total runtime: 62 minutes
Tracklist and excerpted lyrics below the cut
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN ■ QUEEN
[Instrumental]
IT’S A BOY ■ THE WHO
It’s a boy, Mrs. Walker, it’s a boy
A son! A son! A son!
THE LAMB LIES DOWN ON BROADWAY ■ GENESIS
Something inside me has just begun
Lord knows what I have done
And the lamb lies down on Broadway
NOISE POLLUTION ■ PORTUGAL. THE MAN
Let's reverse evolution
Let's leave behind this dry land
Crawl back to the ocean
PROMISELAND ■ MIKA
I was born in that summer when the sun didn't shine
I was given the name that doesn't feel like it's mine
Lived my life as the good boy I was told I should be
Prayed every night to a religion that was chosen for me
MUTINY, I PROMISE YOU ■ THE NEW PORNOGRAPHERS
What's the weight of the world worth to you, kid?
Go write down what you see and see how far it can go
What's the weight of the world worth to your side?
Here is where you got lost and here is how you got by
And here is the mutiny I promised you
And here is the party it turned into
PUMPED UP KICKS ■ FOSTER THE PEOPLE
He'll look around the room, he won't tell you his plan
He's got a rolled cigarette
Hanging out his mouth, he's a cowboy kid
LATTER DAYS ■ MOTHER MOTHER
Look at the guys of the modern day
Gutting the goose with the golden egg
MR. BLUE SKY ■ ELECTRIC LIGHT ORCHESTRA
Mr. Blue, you did it right
But soon comes Mr. Night
Creeping over, now his hand is on your shoulder
Never mind, I'll remember you this
I'll remember you this way
ABSOLUTELY ■ RA RA RIOT
It's the year of absolutely being absolutely nothing
Absolutely crushing absolutely everything
Absolutely loving, absolutely loving
Absolutely loving, absolutely
& ■ TALLY HALL
Big bad Betty of the 'pocalypse
She opens her lips & it goes like this
When the golden rule & the jungle meet
There'll be nothing to love &
There'll be no one to beat
THIS SONG HAS NO TITLE ■ ELTON JOHN
I'm an innocent young child, sharp as a knife
And each day I learn just a little bit more
I don't know why but I do know what for
If we're all going somewhere, let's get there soon
Oh, this song's got no title, just words and a tune
TOPEKA ■ LUDO
Every saint has a past, every sinner has a future
CARRY ON ■ FUN.
If you're lost and alone
Or you're sinking like a stone
Carry on
KNIGHTS OF SHAME ■ AWOLNATION
Dance, baby, dance, like the world is ending
#good omens#adam young#fanmix#good omens fanmix#my jam#here it is the playlist i've been fussing at for weeks#my goal for this playlist: at least 1/3 of the songs should be from the era of queen#and the other 2/3 should sound like they could be#best listened to in order#yall this shit got flow#it also -- like its canon -- doesn't SOUND like a bummer despite the contents being#somewhat apocalyptic
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[click for better quality!]
“RK, please,” Reagan’s voice broke on the final word, and she reached out to him with a shaking hand. “It haunts me every single day, I swear. It was an accident, I never meant to hurt anyone, I just had something dangerous and I wasn’t being careful…”
“You’re a fucking animal. You deserve what’s coming to you.” His voice diffused through the stale air like cigarette smoke, staining everything it touched. RK crunched some dirt underneath his nails and audibly breathed in and then out. His breath hitched along the way, staggering his short beats before his lungs were empty again.
It wasn’t unusual to hear things like that vibrate inside her own head, gaining momentum with each repetition. Being a bad person was, indeed, the only thing she knew for certain anymore. It was easy to take the blame when the only one reminding her was herself. She could shrug the thoughts off, distract herself, suppress them with the song stuck in her head.
But they weren’t her words anymore. They clung to RK’s lips, to his face, reddened with frustration, to the veins of his hands, clenched tight as if he aimed to strike her. The thought of a mere bruised jaw or broken nose sounded wonderful at the comparison.
“I know I’m a bad person, but I didn’t mean…”
“Stop.” RK raised a hand to cut her off, and the remainder of Reagan’s retort died on her lips. The one word squeezed Reagan’s hope from her body and left her deflated. “Don’t do that. Don’t make me try and look at you the same way. I’m not going to.”
Tag list: @erisunderthemoon @thespooniewrites @ashes-to-sen @porcelain-heartstrings @idreamonpaper @blonchen @cohldhands @mejohanssonwrites @theforgottencoolkid @griffinoliverwrites @neirawrites @bowtomypointlesswords @thekeyten @leicawri @books-of-lunacy @sonya-is-confused @maskedlady @indecentpause @thewritertiffany @starlitesymphony @ejmcmoon-fanworks @paper-shield-and-wooden-sword @cryptid-kaz @ejmcmoon-fanworks @madebyyourstruly @watermelons-writings @rika-writess @omgbrekkerkaz @ofvisitorsthefairest @cynically-optomistic @thatpaperlife @thewritinggodmother @katabasiss @nerocael @teacupwriter @nadiasnarrative @semblanche @at-thezenith @emdrabbles @lexaawrites @ill-write-when-im-dead @soupopoireau @coralblast @pied-piper-of-hamlet @hermiones-writeblrr
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sofiya mikhailova - a character introduction
excerpt:
“Darling,” I say, take another drag from my cigarette, perch it in between two fingers and exhale, look up at the sky, and letting it mix with the cold fog nipping at my heels, and letting it dissipate, the hunger of my magic unfurling like new leaves and smoke as I speak, words clawing at the hollow of my ribcage, petals blooming in my throat. “I don’t want to tell you again. We’re not here for me.”
basics: sofiya valentinovna mikhailova | misha | 21 | she/her/they/them | protagonist | gardner/groundskeeper | murderous bisexual | wrath | temperance | the witch (with the bloody a hands and the sharp teeth and the one who grasps at the strings of fate) | estiyan | 21.11
pinterest - tag
aesthetic:
the ringing of church bells over an abandoned cemetery, the reflection of a cathedral in a puddle on the pockmarked asphalt, trees parting before the people who walk through them, the howling of wind and mocking laughter echoing over the mountains, the creak of a door as it opens, the flicker of a porch light as it turns on, ashes in a ring of stones, iron nails driven into wooden crosses, the taste of iron on your lips, the feeling of shocking awake just before you’re about to fall asleep, a group of ravens scattering at the nearest sound, blue-purple swollen storm clouds converging on the horizon, the cracks in old glass farmhouse windows, tugging your jacket closer to your skin, the feeling of bruises blooming up your arms, the ache of walking all day and then walking more, winding mountain roads that abruptly end, deep scratches in park benches, the rustling of leaves, the first note of a violin, the sun setting far too early, winter chills far before winter, the branches of a willow tree reaching for the water, silvery birch and gnarled pine, small towns with their small secrets, the everlasting silence before the storm, the moment before lightening flays open the sky, the chirping of crickets stopping in unison, dolls sitting on shelves watching, the ringing in your ears, pine and woodsmoke and packed earthen roads, an abandoned amusement park, strips of linen tied to trees and waving in the wind, long nails and sharp teeth
appearance:
Sofiya Mikhailova is petite of frame, all her wilderness built up, so much you can’t believe it fits. Her hair is long and dark and curly, blue-black ringlets cascading down her back like a waterfall of night, punctuated by dark doe eyes, blue black like her hair, skin so pale you think she could be a ghost, pale blue veins tracing along her arms, patterned with bruises, both fresh and fading, the hint of a smile on deep blood-red lips, but you can’t tell how cruel it can be, flashes of sharp white teeth hidden behind even sharper words, the same-red flowers blooming underneath her bare feet as she walks through the woods, close enough to delicate that most people can be fooled. But she bites, and she kicks and screams, beaten and bloody and everything in between, nails like claws, burned by her own iron, faerie and feral and terrified. The kind of rage that seeps out through her, sickly in the air like perfume, like her magic, the smoke of a cigarette blooming like new leaves, death and rebirth, both ends of the extreme but neither, child and ancient, bitter growing.
playlist:
//natural by imagine dragons
//demons by imagine dragons
//radioactive by imagine dragons
//killer queen by queen
//sinners by barns courtney
//bad guy by billie eilish
//glitter and gold by barns courtney
inspiration: My inspiration for Sofiya comes from basically all the female protagonists I’ve ever created. I really like anti-heroines and Sofiya embodies what my favourite type of anti-heroine is. Bitter, calculating, willing to do whatever it takes. I’ve written so many versions of her in so many different projects, but this is the one I’ve settled with! And I’m very happy with her. Objectively, she’s a terrible person, but I still love writing her.
#ch: sofiya mikhailova#character introduction#wip: crown the ravens who paint the sky#salem.writing#mine#character intro
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