Hi, my name is Jennie. 40. She/her. Multi fandom. Its become a Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson shit post blog. I write for a mixed race oc/reader. I reblog aesthetics for my emotions at the time. I like anything dealing with the occult. 18+ only. Minors dni. You have been warned.
I’ve finally decided to pin a new intro because my tumblr is a mess!
I’ve been told that i bring comfort in the form of words and presence. I’ve got a keen eye. I scream when startled, and I’m in love with everything that isn’t good for me.
Lucky strikes menthol silver is the air that I breathe. Vodka and whiskey run through my veins in place of blood.
I’m in love with the idea of longing and I seek out things that can hurt me.
I’m 40. AFAB. On the cusp of revolution. I adore AUs, anything supernatural, mysticism, the Goetias, and everything that dwells in the dark.
I adore Joe Keery and Joseph Quinn and all of the characters they portray. This tumblr is dedicated to that; I do reblog non-ST related material.
I do not condone hate of any kind towards any of their characters. I’m too old for that.
Let’s talk, I’m not shy but I warn you I go into rabbit holes at 3 am when my mind isn’t busy.
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
summary: after being discharged from prison, gator locked himself in isolation—refusing to let anyone hurt him ever again. but when he meets you, his considerate neighbor, he realizes the life he dreams of is guarded by one thing he never felt before. fear.
word count: 4.4k
warnings/tags: blind gator, explicit language, blasphemy, religious themes, brutal angst from gator, petnames, flirting, fluff, strangers to lovers, meet cute?, incorrect use of a mobility cane (not what you think, don't worry)
a/n: hi everyone!! first gator fic, kinda nervous... truth be told, i have not watched fargo. i'm working off fanfiction, edits, and a gator scene pack. hope i captured his character well. this will be the first part of a little mini-series with these two. hope you enjoy!!
Gator Tillman was many things.
Stubborn, overconfident, bigoted—Gator had been called every insult under the sun. Whether it was his father or the town he sherriffed, Gator Tillman was made up of a million flaws. A population of words that lived under his skin, most of which seeped from his blood itself.
But he was not a coward.
Come hell or high water, if Gator Tillman wanted something, he would get it. More often than not, Gator found that his iron-like willpower was reserved for making his father happy—or at least trying to.
He didn't think he worked for anything more than making his father proud of him. Whether Roy had told him to or not, Gator did anything to please him—planting evidence, tracking down Dot, hell, even going after Ole Munch? Gator did it without question.
With all of his determination, he didn't have room for fear—for hesitation. Why would he? It wasn't like he had anything to lose. After all, he was the law—untouchable, invincible.
But being the law couldn't save him this time.
Truth be told, Gator was convinced losing his sight was worse than dying.
He would be able to handle dying. Maybe he would die a martyr and finally earn his father's approval. Even if he died foolishly, he would still be dead. He wouldn't have to live with the guilt, the shame of dying as he lived. Nothing more than a disappointment.
As far as Gator was concerned, dying would be a mercy.
But Gator didn't like thinking about what would happen next. Not spiritually. Not with his soul, or whatever—truth be told, he didn't believe in the afterlife. Heaven, hell, it was all bullshit to him. He had lived in purgatory long enough to know the only fate for him was the one where he would never wake up.
No, Gator was worried about more than where his soul would end up. He was worried about what they would do with his corpse.
Gator already knew he wouldn't be buried with his family. His name would ruin the perfect image casted generations ago—matching headstones all marked with Roy Tillman. Even in his death, Gator would be a burden. Something to be ashamed of rather than cherished.
That was all he knew—how to be a failure.
Even before the incident, Roy's words used to cycle through Gator's mind constantly, punishing Gator for daring to breathe—to live, to be his son in the first place. Despite the torture, Gator remained strong, refusing to let the pain get to him.
As he grew up, Gator learned to think of his heart as a soldier. A soldier needs armour. Protection. Without protection, you allow vulnerability, and a war isn't won with vulnerability.
So Gator lived his life with a bulletproof vest—one he had spent a lifetime weaving into perfection. It was the one thing he hadn't messed up, and Gator would have rather died than allow anyone to see it. He would be damned if he let someone ruin it for him.
If he kept it to himself, no one could scoff in his face and test it out, firing until they found the weak spot.
There were days Gator couldn't handle the weight of the bullets. He was tired of the battlefield, of standing on the frontlines, of this war he was born into—a war of shame and blood that he couldn't wash off for it lived under his skin.
But there was no other option than to live.
It wasn't until he had lost everything that his vest failed. Blind, tortured, and broken down to nothing, his father delivered the fatal blow.
“If there was any use for you, it's gone now.”
Gator could still remember that moment down to the taste of his tears—rare and broken. Discarded on the ground—blind, hopeless, and abandoned by his father—he realized that sight must be the first thing you lose when you die.
When the bullet sinks too far. When you can taste the blood travelling from your gut up to your mouth, iron lingering in between your teeth.
But like everything else, death didn't want Gator. Instead, he was given a life sentence—the punishment the darkness.
Gator didn't know what monster he was in his past life, but if he didn't know any better, he was sure God had taken it out on him in this one—for Gator didn't believe in a devil so cruel.
Now, all he had was his father's voice in his ear.
“If there was any use for you, it's gone now.”
As much as the words killed him—stabbing him in the lung—the twist of the knife was the horror that kept him up at night.
Roy was right.
He was utterly useless now. More incompetent than his father ever claimed he was before. Anything he ever had before was gone—his heart purple now. Injured in the line of duty and sent home to rot.
Gator would never have anything ever again.
And you were proof.
Gator didn't know what torture truly was until he met you. It had been almost two months of knowing you and Gator still wasn't sure how he was breathing.
It was the second of November when he had his first brush with an angel.
He had heard rummaging sounds from his front lawn, catching his attention as he collected the mail from his entryway. It had taken him—well, his parole officer—forever to find a house that met Gator's needs. He had only been there for five months, half of which he spent trying to adjust to his surroundings. Blind and bitter, he stayed inside, resigning himself to a life of isolation. It was better for everyone.
He listened in on the sound from the other side of the door, trying to decipher whether or not it was an animal, or even worse—a person. It wasn't until he had heard a whispered "Goddamn it" that he sprang into action.
Gator rushed to unlock his door, hurtling the door open with all his strength. "The fuck are y'doin' on my lawn!" His shout echoed across the lawn. Damn, he had forgotten how loud he could be—especially in the open, nauseous air. Was it just him, or did something smell?
The gasp that followed quickly refreshed his memory as to why he never went outside. He hated people seeing him, even with his sunglasses, he still felt like a freak show. He heard the same voice from before stutter. "Sorry! Shit, I didn't realize anyone was home—"
"Someone's home. Get off my lawn."
"Sorry, I was just trying to clean up the mess—" Gator's brows furrowed. The mess?
"Fuck y'talkin' 'bout?"
Your voice struggled again. "The—the eggs?"
Gator promptly came to realize what had been invading his senses. "Eggs?" He questioned, covering his nose as he came to recognize the odor.
"Yeah, and the toilet paper? They've been here since Halloween," you answered.
Gator felt anger wash over him before a tsunami of embarrassment took over.
"I'm sorry. I know I should've knocked, but I didn't see a car, so I assumed you were out of town—I'm sorry. It's just I have a thing with smells, and it's been giving me a headache—I didn't mean to overstep or anything…"
Gator couldn't tell if it was out of guilt, annoyance, or some sort of siren song he was trying to avoid that caused him to stop you.
"Stop. Just—stop," he sighed. You immediately went quiet. The silence lingered like static—dragging on until you can't discern whether or not it's getting louder or you're starting to go insane. "How bad is it?" Gator asked.
He could practically hear your following wince. "It's not… good."
Gator groaned, rolling his head. "For fuck's sake—"
"Listen, with the two of us working together, I'm sure we can get it done a lot faster."
Gator scowled. "Two of us? The fuck y'think I need you for?" He spat. Somewhere deep in Gator, he knew he was being unfair—that he was lashing out. You didn't deserve his anger over offering to help.
"I—I don't—" you fumbled for an answer before Gator picked up on you swallowing, as if you were pulling yourself together. "You're right, I'm sorry. I'll go."
The dejected tone in your voice made something in Gator falter. He could practically hear his court-ordered shrink in his head.
"Shutting people out won't prevent the criticism you're scared of."
Scared. The word had lingered where Gator kept his anger, the new vest around his heart—fragile and weak—rippling from the shot.
Gator Tillman was not scared.
He felt the vest absorb the bullet, warping around his soldier.
"Wait," he sighed. "You don't need to go. Just—give me a second." Gator begrudgingly threw his mail in the basket by his shoerack, smoothly swung a nearby baseball cap on his head, and unhooked his cane. He rolled the tip on the ground beneath him, checking for the metal threshold.
Gator felt the static grow louder in his ears as he guided himself down to the grassy lawn. You hadn't said a word since he grabbed his cane.
"What?" He barked, already irritated. His back straightened, his shoulders squaring up, ready to intimidate. Gator Tillman was not scared. Gator Tillman was n—
"You sure you don't wanna put on shoes?"
Gator froze.
What?
No pity? No comment on his cane? Not even a hesitant stutter? He wasn't prepared for someone to be blind to his faults. It felt like his heart had stopped, struggling to adapt to a new atmosphere—one where he wasn't criticized for living.
"I hardly think it's comfortable," you continued, filling in the silence.
Gator cleared his throat, trying to unclog his airways so he could fucking breathe.
"It, er—I… It helps me feel the terrain better." His voice had lost all of its bite. Pathetic. You had him bowing down to you in seconds.
You clicked your tongue, most likely nodding at the explanation. "Fair enough." You replied.
Gator didn't know what to say. Now that he thought about it, he might've been better prepared for social interactions had he not isolated himself for months. You went quiet. He couldn't tell if you expected to reply or not—
"Well, I don't know how we're gonna do this anymore," you sighed. His brows furrowed.
"What d'ya mean?"
He picked up on a second worth of hesitation before you answered. "Well, frankly, I'm not sure how you can help clean up something you can't see." Your response caught Gator off guard. Not because it was mean or cruel—no, he would've expected that, anyway. But it wasn't laced with pity, either. You didn't say it like you were walking on eggshells.
It was… casual. Like you were just saying what you thought instead of carefully arranging your words. It felt refreshing and overwhelming—like the first breath you take after almost drowning.
"I—I can still feel just fine." Gator's throat burned. The words scratched on their way out, clawing against his throat the same way his lies used to. "Y'said there was toilet paper, yeah? I use m'cane to find the toilet paper, clean up the eggs, done."
"Really, huh?" Your tone sounded lighter. "And how do I know you're not just putting me on egg duty 'cause you don't want to do it?" You teased.
Gator's smile broke across his face like it was a new expression for him, his heart warming despite the chilled air.
"Think that lowly of me already, huh?" Gator teased back. He could feel something inside of him opening, loosening.
"How about we just see how good you are with your cane, hmm?"
"And then?" He inquired, stepping closer to you with a smirk. He didn't even care about your choice of words. If you were anyone else, he probably would've cursed at you for saying "we". But with your warmth radiating so strong he could feel his cheeks flush—he found he didn't have it in himself to care.
"We'll go from there…" you answered. The smile Gator could hear in your voice made his heart feel like it was beating to the rhythm of a song instead of a fistfight for the first time in his life.
"You got it, sweetheart."
"Hold your hand out," you told him. Gator's brow raised curiously at your demand. Nevertheless, he extended his palm outwards for you.
Warm fingers met his hand. A match—gentle and giving—landing in a pool of gasoline—violent and taking. You rotated his hand vertically, shaking it once you did as you introduced yourself. The sound of your name felt like a prayer.
Gator fumbled for words—the touch of your hand rewiring his brain. "Um, Gator." He waited for the teasing, the questioning—it was as familiar for him as his name was to damnation.
"Nice to officially meet you, Gator."
His grip on your hand loosened from surprise before tightening, as if he could hold on to how you treated him.
"You too, neighbor." Gator only pulled his hand back when he realized every second of contact was counting down on a time bomb—rigged to explode like everything in his life before. "Let's get to work, then."
With a lot of trial and error, both you and Gator had finally found a rhythm. Gator had struggled for longer than he'd ever admit, but he couldn't lie to himself—his determination to impress you had overridden his insecurity, allowing him to slowly find a technique to his work great enough to have him finish before you.
Gator raked his cane through the lawn one last time for good measure before directing his attention to his front door where he could hear you muttering to yourself.
"Think 'm all done, sweetheart." He called, complacent in his victory.
Your reply came out too low for him to pick up—muttered under your breath as if you didn't want him to hear you.
With no response, he carefully guided himself to his porch. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Good job," you spat at him.
"'M pretty sure most folks'd say it's wrong to lie to a blind man, sweetheart." He heard a sigh fall from your lips. He had heard enough sighs of annoyance or impatience to last him a lifetime—yours wasn't one. "…Have a feeling you're not angry 'cause of me."
"I'm just—I'm just having trouble getting it all off," you admitted. "Fuckin' idiot punks got you good."
Gator almost smirked at your unexpected colorful language. Maybe it was his childhood, or his own propensity for swearing, but you swearing made him feel closer to you—as if he had known you longer than the last forty-five minutes.
You huffed. "It's fine. I'll figure it out—"
"Put me to work."
You paused. "What?"
"I finished my part," he started, pulling closer to you. "J's tell me what you wan'me t'do, and I'll do it."
You didn't respond for a while before he heard a light chuckle.
"Alright then, neighbor," you replied. "You have a mop?"
Gator bowed his head, scratching the back of his neck. "…Kinda," he mumbled.
"Kinda?" You echoed.
He huffed through his nose. "I got a roomba."
"…They make mops?"
"Yea, they, um—have mop attachment things you can put on the bottom…" He explained awkwardly shuffling his feet.
"Really?" He nodded in response. "Huh," you thought out loud.
You were silent for another moment, most likely thinking of a solution. "I got it," you perked up. Gator could hear the pride you were trying not to reveal. He knew that sound like the back of his hand.
"Let's hear it," he encouraged—something he always wanted from someone.
"Go get two towels."
He nodded, bowing the tip of his hat. "Yes, ma'am."
"You're gonna need a bucket of water with soap in it!" You called after him as he walked through the doorway. He gave you a swift thumbs up, making his way to his bathroom.
He came back to your voice greeting him. "Perfect, thank you." Gator couldn't help it, he beamed like a kid on Christmas—receiving the one gift he was too scared to put on his list. Your hand brushed his as you took the bucket from him, setting it down on the ground.
"The towels?" You asked. He grabbed them off his shoulder, holding it out for you. He stood there in the silence, trying to listen for any sign as to what you were doing—only the vague sounds of fabric whooshing to clue him in.
"Alright, now…" you trailed off. "I need your cane."
His eyebrows furrowed. "My cane?"
"Just trust me."
Gator hesitated before tentatively extending it towards you, his shoulders tense with anxiety as you carefully took it from him.
It's not like he even needed it. He wasn't helpless. He could get around just fine on his own. He never wanted a stupid fucking cane, anyway. If anything, he thought it slowed him down. But his heart raced at the idea of you doing something to it. What if you ran away with it? What if you tried to snap it in half? What if you were about to make fun of him for using one in the first place—
"Here you go."
Gator snapped back to reality at the return of your voice. He reached out, scanning the space for his cane until he found your hand, patiently holding it out for him to take. As he held it in his hand again, he noticed the unfamiliar weight, seemingly coming from the bottom.
"Makeshift mop." You said, answering his question before he could even form it on his tongue. He brought his other hand to the end of the cane, noting the bundle of soft fabric.
"How did you…" he trailed off in amazement.
"I balled up one towel, wrapped the other one around it from the center, pulled up the edges, around the end of your cane, dropped a hair tie from the top and used it to tie the edges—" Your explanation left Gator speechless. It was so simple, and yet he felt like he had never heard anything more brilliant.
"—Now you can use your cane to clean the walls, you know? Like you do on the ground, just… on the walls." There was something so beautiful to Gator about the growing shyness in your voice, as if you were nervous to have a solution.
Gator broke out into a smile. "That's fuckin' genius, sweetheart."
"Really?" You asked, making Gator laugh.
"Y'kiddin'? Y'just made a fuckin' makeshift mop fer me." Gator returned his focus to the bottom of the cane again, admiring your handiwork.
"It was no problem, really…" Gator didn't need his eyes to see the flush on your cheeks.
He laughed again, shaking his head. "Well, c'mon then, sweetheart. Go on n' show me where y'want me." Gator picked up on the sweetest laugh he had ever heard as he picked up the bucket of water, ready to go wherever you wanted him to.
You grabbed his arm gently, helping guide him off his porch. Gator wasn't used to having someone else guide him. He had gotten used to the layout of his house a long time ago. Every corner, every light switch, every cabinet had all been mapped out in Gator's mind. In the outside world—whenever he dared to go—he would use his cane to direct him, warning him of every danger he was walking into.
But giving his trust to you? That felt like walking on water.
"Alright, and now turn…" you directed him, delicately spinning him around. "Okay, you'll start with the garage door and the driveway," you told him. "You're facing the middle of the garage right now." Gator couldn't tell you how perfect you were. Not only did you treat him like a regular person, you accommodated him. You guided him, saw for him—Jesus, you turned his cane into a mop. You aided him instead of giving up on him, giving him every chance to do it on his own.
"Thanks, sweetheart."
Gator was never one to thank people. He tried to, after the incident—to be kinder than before, to properly show his appreciation. But the more he thanked people, the more he realized no one was letting him do anything on his own. He had become a charity case instead of a human. A good deed instead of a person.
Eventually, Gator went back to being unappreciative—to not having room in his heart for others. All he had was anger. Fury that masked his misery. It was the easiest version of him he knew how to be.
But you? Something about you made him want to be someone convoluted—someone that would take effort to be. To put his corpse and his last name behind him and dwell on whether or not his soul was headed to the same place yours was. If he deserved a fate like yours.
You patted his arm, letting him know you were still there. "Have fun. I'll just be a few feet from your right cleaning your porch, okay?" Gator smiled as you once again gave him directions.
Your hand fell from his arm. "Try not to finish before me, yeah?" You called from his right. "Or I might just have to leave all the cleaning to you."
Gator chuckled. "Not my fault y'made me a super cane," he teased, hoping to elicit more laughter out of you—more sounds he could store somewhere when it came to you.
You laughed back, filling Gator's heart with warmth. "Don't make me take it back."
Gator smirked again.
"Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart."
Time flew between the two of you as you both cleaned. Every now and then, Gator would ask you if he had missed a spot, and every time, you had said no, occasionally teasing him.
"You still have to ask?" You had replied after the fourth time, making Gator smile.
"C'mon, darlin'. Humor me."
Gator listened to your nearing footsteps, facing the approaching sound. "So?" He teased. "I pass?"
You tsked your teeth, most likely shaking your head. "I'm afraid not, Gator."
He tilted his head, a coy smile on his face. "Really? Whyever not?" Gator never liked being laughed at in the past, but the beautiful sound that spurred from your lips made Gator want to be responsible for that sound for the rest of his life.
"Seems you missed a spot," you answered. "At the top." Gator turned his head towards the top of the garage door. He extended his cane upwards, reaching the top. "No, a little to the left," you pointed.
Gator followed your direction. "Like this?"
"No, hold on." You joined his side, placing your hand atop his. You maneuvered him, steering him towards the spot he had missed. Gator smirked smugly as your touch electrified him. It seemed your touch was worth Gator being incompetent for once.
"There you go," you validated, letting go of his hand. "Looks like you're all done then."
"Yeah? How'd I do?" He tilted his head innocently, unable to contain his grin.
You chuckled. "No notes. A plus."
Gator beamed in your direction. "Never been a model student before."
"Must have had a great teacher, then."
"Oh, I did." Gator flattered, stepping closer. "Fuckin' genius one if you ask me."
You giggled. "Careful there, handsome. You're gonna get yourself into trouble."
"Oh, I don't doubt it, sweetheart." Gator smirked, leaning closer to your warmth.
Gator picked up on what sounded like you running your fingers through your hair. "So…" you started, "We're finished cleaning now."
"That right?"
You hummed. "Looks as good as new."
Gator nodded solemnly. "Lead me back to the door?" Gator held his hand out for you.
"Of course," you said softly—a lullaby that could soothe him to sleep—as you took his hand.
Gator felt bitterness rising in his chest. He didn't want to stop being with you, yet. How was he supposed to part ways with the one good thing he had ever known? It was when you had led him to his door—his hand on the doorknob—that Gator realized something.
He didn't want to be alone.
But Gator knew there was no other life for him.
He would be destined to a life of solitude—too infuriated with the world to allow himself a chance for happiness—
"Hey," you called before he could shut the door.
"Yeah?" Gator held the door open, unwilling to let you go so soon.
You paused. "Maybe… Maybe I could see you again sometime? When we're not both drowning in eggs and toilet paper?" You chuckled.
Gator went as still as a statue.
"You.. Y'want to see me again?" You must have nodded—a silence lingering before your audible confirmation. "Why?" As much as he wanted to beg for your company, he couldn't find one reason why you should say yes—let alone, want his as well.
"I enjoyed cleaning with you, today." There was a smile in your voice that Gator felt like he had to get rid of—self-sabotage ingrained in his bones.
"Y'enjoyed cleanin' up rotten eggs n toilet paper?"
"Okay, I think you're actively ignoring the with you part," you pointed out, still smiling. Gator couldn't keep back the corners of his lips from lifting at your quip.
"…So?" you asked. "What do you think?"
Every instinct in Gator was telling him to run—that this was a bad idea, that you were a bad idea. For all he knew, you could just be waiting to humiliate him, or worse—pitying him.
"I think you're an idiot, teach."
To Gator's chagrin, you didn't fall for his attempt to push you away.
"And here I thought I was a genius?" You argued back, catching onto him.
Gator didn't respond. He didn't know how to. All his life he had wanted more, and now that he had finally accepted he would never anything ever again, here you were to throw him off. Gator was afraid of losing what he just found.
Gator Tillman was not a coward, but he was a coward for you.
You must have taken his silence for an answer. "That's okay. Maybe I'll see you around, yeah? Who knows? Those punks might come back for more." You sounded awkward, unsure. Gator hated it.
"It was nice meeting you, Gator." Your solemn tone was fading into the distance, leaving him to rot like everything else—
"Wait." Gator stopped you. It was now or never. "I want to see you again, too." With nothing to see, Gator only had the drumming in his ears—pulsing at the speed of darkness, ringing in his ears like a warning bell, signaling the oncoming train—
I’ve been off on my reading list for any of Joe’s characters, but something caught my attention for our unloveable tragic son, Gator.
I like that we’re seeing it more from his point of view than Reader. The emotional roller coaster he is feeling as they meet. His vulnerability when it comes to human connection.
Now I’m interested in seeing where this date is going! The fact that his fear is “what if she is doing this just to hurt me in the end?” Because of all of the things he has done to other people.
As the war rages on, Yamada Hizashi receives a phone call from the one who got away. As they sit and talk, they’re reminded that life is fragile and tomorrow is not guaranteed.
Prequel
Chapter One:
“What do you mean all overseas travel is banned!”
Astoria slammed her fist down on the counter, her breathing labored, she’d practically ran to the airport after her rideshare stalled on the highway.
“I’m sorry ma’am, but due to the conflicts of the war in Japan, the government has temporarily shut down all flights out of the United States due to safety concerns.”
In the previous months, factions of the Republican Party had branched off in support of AFO; the thirst for power had hoodwinked the populace into unwavering devotion for the man not of this world.
Dark skies loomed overhead as Astoria made her way out of the airport, she’d watched as clouds grew darker, unnatural weather for Texas in May.
She watched as people around her scattered frantically, most at a loss upon hearing of the grounded flights abroad.
Hizashi. Aizawa. Nemuri.
Three names she hadn’t thought about in a while.
With her job working for the local PD, Astoria hadn’t had time to do much other than wait for orders.
As if her intuition had switched on, she reached for her cellphone as a call came in.
“Well?”
“Grounded,” she replied flatly, “I’m not surprised, after last nights weather report, I wasn’t sure if the President was going to issue martial law.”
Austin had its fair share of political violence in the last month or so, especially with the news of AFO’s resurrection.
Two nights ago, a fire had broken out at a AI data center, half the building was gone before the fire department could contain it.
“Ramirez is going to send you the link to view the wars updates, I think you’re gonna wanna sit down and watch.”
Astoria pressed her left temple, her once brown eye turned a vibrant green, she’d had an artificial eye inserted a few years ago after a failed mission. Resulting in the loss of her original eye and the life of a hostage.
Images floated before her, images only she could see.
Along with the bionic eye, the government had installed a headset to which she could hear and respond too.
Switching to her headset, she watched the live footage of the destroyed cities below.
A woman’s frighten scream distracted her, cars had stopped at the loading dock, people stood still glued to their phones. A child could be heard crying, their parents knelt before them, comforting them as the sudden news of All Might’s stand off with AFO.
“Multo, what’s your status?”
“Still at the airport,” she reported.
There was silence on the line, people began panicking nearby, “Capt’s calling an emergency meeting, can you make it?”
The reply was quick, a simple response and she was flagging down any ride-share that was available.
Unlike the broken down ride-share, traffic clogged Congress at the bridge, people standing still, terror stricken faces illuminated by their phone screens.
Astoria had made the conscious decision to stop the ride, tip, and make her way towards a grey building with years of dark red colored stains from eroded metal pipes.
The lobby was in chaos as people ran around dodging into unmarked doors, security was overwhelmed as they checked the credentials of every person at the entrance.
It had taken her a good twenty minutes before she found herself in a darkened room, several large screens illuminated the space.
“We’ve just received intel that the White House has issued a state of emergency due to the conflict in Japan.”
“Does it have anything to do with that newscaster?” Someone called out from the back.
“She isn’t wrong though, it’s in our nature to bow down to the powers that be,” Astoria glanced at a tall man with bright red skin, it was an unspoken truth that the Republican Party hadn’t changed much in the last century.
“My guys have been monitoring the airwaves,” he continued, “we’ve got some interesting conversations recorded from the last couple of days. All for one’s popularity has risen especially with the heteromorph community.”
Whispers broke out all around them, “this will just give Congress another reason to target us, use us as a scapegoat to pass their discriminatory laws.”
“Multo, have you gotten a hold of your contacts in Japan?”
Astoria perked up, “no Sir, I’m unable to establish any contact,” her mind wandered to a particular blonde.
“I advise you to keep trying, we are aware that you were on your way there when the order was given.”
A news report popped on the main screen, the group watched as reports from all over the USA of upheaval amongst the citizens.
“We’re expecting civil unrest in the next forty-eight hours.”
Unconsciously, Astoria tapped her foot, as the higher ups went over assignments to the heads of their departments. Instead of heading back to her apartment, she would be heading off to a makeshift barracks for pro heroes.
Hizashi Yamada sat alone at his desk, the other teachers had retired to the dorm rooms. His nerves were on fire, he had been right that U.A had a traitor and it was one of the students.
While class 1-A and Aizawa were quick to forgive, Yamada wasn’t as generous.
He thought himself to be a great judge of character, but the betrayal had left him questioning everything he knew.
They’d been infiltrated once, and who’s to say that Aoyama was the only one? There could be more that they weren’t aware of.
His heart raced at the thought of the close calls he, and many others had faced, the fact that Aizawa was injured, lying on a hospital bed alone.
He’d been assigned to quell the discontent of heteromorph’s as well as execute the nomu known as Kurogiri, if it seemed that he’d return to Tomura Shigaraki.
The dark glow of his laptop illuminated his room, he’d decided to lay down for a quick nap; though he wasn’t sure if his nerves would allow for it.
Several photos decorated his nightstand, among them was his phone to which he’d left charging the night before.
Hizashi reached over, plucking it from its charging port, thumb activating the screen. Scrolling through his notifications, one message caught his attention, Hizashi shot up, heart racing.
“Hizashi,” it had been a long while since he’d heard her say his name.
“Kayama’s dead,” the only thing he heard was a single intake of breath.
“Shouta,” his voice cracks, “almost died, he’s recovering…”
Her voice was gentle, soothing, as she comforted him through the phone.
Yamada felt weak, an emotion he didn’t care for, as he sat silently listening.
“We’ve just received word that Star was defeated, it’s total anarchy in the states. Martial law has been declared, we’ve already seen murders happening in broad daylight.”
Astoria was part of a hero network that worked closely with local pd, much like Japanese pro hero Fatgum.
Hizashi clutched his phone tighter, both well aware that everyday meant one inch closer to death.
“If things go haywire, promise me you won’t be a hero and run,” he didn’t believe his own words, knowing that just like Astoria, Present Mic didn’t back down from a fight.
A heavy sigh filtered through the speaker, “we both know that ain’t happening, we’re heroes after all.”
She was right.
Yamada laughed dryly, “heroes is cutting it close,” Aizawa had to remind him to reel it in, no use giving the audience a reason to doubt his allegiance to the cause.
“I miss you,” he rubbed his tired eyes, placing his glasses on the night stand.
“I miss you too.”
They sat silently, listening to each other breathe.
“Babe,” she cooed, “get some rest, I know it’s late,” Hizashi heard her move around wherever she was, “I love you.”
Astoria didn’t wish him safety because their line of work didn’t guarantee safety, as the death of Kayama Nemuri sat heavily in the air.
Hizashi still wasn’t a man who expressed his intimate emotions freely, he hummed in response.
Instead of lying down, he stared at the screen of his phone, the logo of his radio show glowed back at him.
“Multo, on your six” a voice rang out in the darkness.
A woman was running, she clutched a bundle to her chest, a man was behind her, he ran on all fours.
Before Astoria could aim, he flung himself into the air, colliding into the woman. Blood sprayed the asphalt before she could scream.
humans are so lucky and privileged to be able to have creativity and create art. a shame more and more people are choosing to let ai/robot rob them the joy of creating
if we post too fast, we get accused of using ai (no, you don't know how fast someone can write. you don't even know if the "too-frequent-to-be-human updates" you see are something that have long been finished and sitting in an author's drafts for god knows how long. just because it's recently posted, doesn't necessarily always mean it's recently written too. a lot of writers finish the whole thing first before they start posting it chapter by chapter).
if we take "too long to update", we get people pressuring us to "update faster" even though fanfics are our hobbies and we write for ourselves first and foremost.
if our works are grammatically correct, we get accused of using ai (some of us just love correct grammars).
if our works are not grammatically correct, we get insulted/criticized (mind you, not everybody writes in their native language. kudos to writers who write in their second, or third, or fourth language — I'm willing to bet a lot of people who criticize fanfics because of poor grammar can't even speak other languages besides english).
if our paragraphs are "too long and too detailed", we get accused of using ai.
if our paragraphs are "too short", we also get accused of using ai.
if we are autistic and we write in ways some deem "too robotic", we get accused of using ai.
some people just don't use their brains to think "ai was trained on human-made works, it was trained to look human-made. ai writes this way because the way it writes is the way real humans write — real humans whose works it was trained to mimic". instead they somehow disregard this logic and think "hmmm this work looks ai-generated. I will engage in witch hunt, be a bully and harass writers whose works I don't vibe with".
He’d let go of her hand, back turned, their only audience was a lone bird perched on a nearby tree.
“I have something to tell you,” he turned quickly, both hands clutching her arms, “don’t go, stay,” he pleaded.
Their eyes met, her face unreadable until she’d placed one of his hands against her cheek, features soften, “Hizashi,” she whispered.
“I know we can find an agency that will host you, I’m sure they’ll help you with the paperwork for your work visa.”
Yamada’s breath hitched when he felt her lips against his palm, the night before flooding back to him, long curls splayed out on his pillow, the lamp light casting her in an ethereal glow.
“You know it isn’t that easy,” he knew that, “I haven’t seen my family in three years…”
Video calls were different than the real thing and Hizashi knew that.
“Astoria,” he started, “you don’t even like your family.”
He felt her laugh before he heard it, she pulled herself against him, resting her face against his chest, it had taken him some time the first time she’d hugged him to get use to the sensation.
Public displays of affection still wasn’t normalized in modern day Japan.
If there was one thing that Nemuri Kayama had taught her American friend was that Japanese men were weak to physical touch.
Yamada pushed her away, his hands still clutching her arms, gaze intense, “stay the night, there’s gonna be this killer after party, Kayama scored us an invite,” their eyes were locked, his glasses fell to the tip of his nose, he’d never liked his eyes, the way the pupils swirled abnormally, but he hadn’t minded her staring when they were alone.
“It’ll be fun! Yours truly got a playlist worthy of a good time ready to get the party going!”
It had been only a few months since Oboro Shirakumo’s passing; she’d gotten the call from Nemuri later that evening after watching the news.
It had taken a week just to get him to talk to her, he and Aizawa had shut themselves away, the roof top sat empty.
“You just want a replay of last night,” she teased, a blush spread across the blonde’s nose, his smile growing wider, “who doesn’t like to rewind to the best part,” Yamada answered, “sweet tunes deserve a second listen.”
Astoria wrapped her fingers around his tie, pulling the younger boy down, “Hizashi,” she whispered again, pressing her plush lips against his.
Shota Aizawa turned away, hiding behind a corner before the couple could spot him. He’d come to fetch Yamada who’d disappeared, Kayama had informed him that she’d seen him walking off with an upperclassman.
He’d suspected that something was going on; Astoria suddenly joining Kayama during lunch time, when previously she’d eaten lunch in the cafeteria with their classmates.
Before Aizawa was able to peak around the corner, he felt something whizz by his head, the tree near him shook as something slammed into it, splintering the wood.
“Aizawa?”
Yamada had let Astoria go, she stood next to him, arm raised, her thumb and pointer finger pointed at the other boy like a gun.
“Jesus,” she let out a breath, “don’t sneak up on us like that,” Aizawa’s brows furrowed, unable to comprehend what she’d said since she’d reverted back to her native language.
“What’s up bro?”
It wasn’t like Aizawa hadn’t seen Yamada flirt before, he had a natural way to talking to people, getting them to open up even if it was slightly annoying most of the time.
“We’re heading out to the shop, Kayama wanted me to grab you,” Astoria was silent, still as she watched the boys make plans on meeting up with Nemuri.
“Hey, do you…”
Her fingers brushed against the back of his hand, “I’ll message you later, I’ve got to talk to my host family, besides my parents will be wanting to talk,” she stuck her tongue out at that, Yamada tried to reach out but she’d quicken her pace before he could.
“Sorry if I interrupted,” Yamada brushed it off, putting his hands into his pockets, “since when did you get a girlfriend? An American one at that.”
“She isn’t my g-friend.”
From what he had witnessed, it was more than that, but he didn’t push, only walking silently next to his friend as they found Nemuri with a group of recently graduate classmates near the school’s entrance.
“Where’s Astoria?”
“Had to take care of some personal things, she’s down for later,” Yamada replied quickly.
Nemuri smirked, she slung an arm around his shoulders, “I didn’t take you for the cherry red kinda guy, I think it’s a bit brash, but since it’s you, it fits.”
“What?”
The older girl pointed to her lips, releasing the younger boy, “Seems like Astoria left her claim on you behind.”
Instead of wiping away the evidence of his little rendezvous, Yamada sported it proudly as the little group made their way to a cafe nearby.
