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unfinishedslurs · 1 year

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Spiderman au (stoncy)

Jonathan makes sure to check that the ally is well and truly empty before he pulls his mask up. Christ, he wouldn’t have become Spider-Man if he’d known how hot the suit would be. And not in the fun way people like to joke about. He chugs his water, and debates pouring some over his head. Sadly he needs it to hydrate. He slowly drinks the rest like a good superhero.

That’s still insane to him. Even after years of experience, he still sometimes thinks he’s going to wake up and it will all have been a bad dream.

Nancy told him she got into investigative reporting after her best friend went missing. She was found a year later, body deteriorating inside the restricted area of a government lab that had faces a chemical leak. A leak they tried their best to cover up.

Her first article is under someone else’s name. He’s read it. It’s incredibly good for a seventeen year old burning with righteous fury. It’s obvious that she was meant for this, built for finding the cracks and burrowing deeper until she pulls the ugly truth.

He respects her deeply. He just wishes that he wasn’t the crack she’s focusing on.

“You’ve spoken to him though, Jonathan,” she says, eyes pleading. “If anyone could get me an interview, it would be you!”

And have her recognize him instantly? No thanks.

“Nancy, seriously. He doesn’t want an interview.”

“But if I could just talk to him-”

“No, Nance.”

He knows her first regret will always be Barb. Her second, though? The ex-boyfriend who also went missing after agreeing to some extremely shady treatment for his terminal cancer. Unlike Barb, she never got closure for that one. She still doesn’t know what happened to him. She tracked him as far as the facility they’d taken him to, but it exploded long before she got there. Presumably with Steve inside.

He knows she still holds out hope. They never identified his body she’d whispered to him once after too many drinks at an office party. I checked the records. They don’t know for certain if he was still in it.

The next day she told him she knew it was a stupid wish. Even if the explosion hadn’t killed him, the cancer would have by now. But he knows Nancy. She’ll never stop wondering.

“So how’d you get yours?” Deadpool asks, swinging his legs cheerfully over the ledge.

“My Chimichanga? You gave it to me.”

He can practically see Deadpool roll his eyes behind his mask. “No, smartass. Your powers.”

That’s a loaded question. If he’s too specific it would be easy to find out who he is. But it’s not like it would be with anyone else, is it? Deadpool’s a hero too, no matter how much anti he puts in front of it. And they’re friends, or something like it. Friendly enough for him to let the other man slap his ass at least.

“I got bit by a radioactive spider.”

“No,” he gasps, whipping his head towards Jonathan. “No fucking way. Seriously?”

“I’m being completely serious!” He promises, starting to laugh. It really does sound ridiculous out loud. “I was on this field trip at the place my mom’s ex-boyfriend worked at, and it got out and bit me!”

“Field trip? Oh my God, you were a fucking baby. No wonder your mom broke up with that guy.”

That sobers him up quick. “He was actually a really nice guy,” he says quietly, looking down at his hands. “He, uh…he died, actually.” Saving my brother, he doesn’t say. The failure still bleeds in his chest. He should have been stronger. Bob didn’t deserve the way he died, ripped apart by the Green Goblin because they’d been after him.

His mom doesn’t blame him, but she should.

“Shit,” Deadpool swears, reaching towards Jonathan as if to comfort before thinking better of it and pulling away. “Shit, I shouldn’t have said that, sorry. Me and my big fucking mouth.”

“It’s more trouble than you’re worth,” Jonathan agrees, and ignores the protest that gets. “What about you? How’d you get your powers?”

Deadpool takes the deflect with grace, eager as Jonathan to get the awkwardness behind them. “Oh, me? Great story, you’re gonna love this. So I was dying from cancer, right?”

He wasn’t expecting that, almost choking on the chimichanga he’d taken a bite of.

“Gross, man. Chew it, don’t spew it.”

“You have cancer and you’re out here doing all this?”

“I had cancer,” he corrects. “Terminal. There was no saving me, yanno? And I…well, I got desperate.”

Jonathan sucks in a breath. He knows exactly what kind of things desperation lead to.

Deadpool huffs a laugh. “Yeah,” he agrees, even though Jonathan hasn’t said anything. “Stupid of me, I know. Shoulda just kicked the bucket like a respectable motherfucker. But no, I just had to track down some shady research facility that promised to try and find a cure for me. You know how that goes, right? But, well…” He raises a fist, dropping it slowly down before he opens it near his thigh, making an explosion noise with his mouth. “Rock fucking bottom, amiright? I was gonna die anyway. Why not add human experimentation to my bucket list?”

“So it worked?”

“So it worked?” He mimics, in a high-pitched voice that sounds nothing like Jonathan. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“How’d you get superpowers from it?”

“I was getting to that. So it worked, right? But the cure they used…it wasn’t designed to stop the cancer. Not really. No, what they did was turn me into a mutant. I’m basically an X-Men by now. X-Man? Point is, not dying did not come naturally. And once they brought it out of me, they made sure to test it. Again, and again, and again.”

Suddenly his chimichanga doesn’t look too good anymore. He hands it to Deadpool, who takes it with enthusiasm.

“Thanks, man, how’d you know I was still hungry? Anyway, I escaped, obviously. Took the whole organization down with me. By the time I left, whole building was in flames. Now I’m hunting down the survivors.” He takes a bite. “Y’sure you don’ wan dish?” He asks through a mouthful of food.

“I’m good.”

He swallows. “Your loss, I guess. This is fucking delicious. Sorry to be a moodkiller and run, but I’m afraid I have an appointment with a very small, very blind landlady. Toodles!”

He leaves Jonathan there at a loss for words. He can’t even make a sound to protest. All he can do is watch as Deadpool jumps straight down from the roof, only barely bothering to slow his fall so he doesn’t break his leg. Not that it would matter much if he did. Jonathan stays on the roof, processing, until he hears a woman cry for help a few streets away.

He hits his web-shooters. Crime never sleeps in the city.

It’s only when he’s in bed that he realizes he’s heard that story before.

The next time he sees Nancy, he’s a mess.

“You ready to shoot?” She asks, setting a coffee on his desk with a smile. It falters when all he does is stare back. “Jonathan?”

Ready to shoot? Right. Photography. His job. His job he works at with Nancy. Nancy, whose ex-boyfriend may or may not be the guy who has slapped his ass and flirted with him on numerous occasions. Fuck. He’s going insane. He’s losing his fucking mind. Deadpool probably isn’t even Steve and all this will be for nothing.

“Your ex-boyfriend,” he blurts out. She rears back, startled. “He had cancer, right?”

“Steve?” She shakes her head, not in disagreement but in confusion. “What does he have to do with anything?”

“Did he?”

Her mouth twists in displeasure. He doesn’t blame her, that was a terrible fucking way to start “Hey, your dead boyfriend might not be so dead after all!” He wishes he could bang his head on his desk without cracking the table. “I’m not talking about this.”

“Nancy, wait,” he starts, and she shakes her head again.

“I’m going to see if Fred is free, actually,” she says, and hurries away. He groans, and lets his head fall onto his desk anyway. One tiny crack won’t matter, right?

It’ll fit in with all the others.

Nancy avoids him for the next week. By the time he sees Deadpool again, he’s even more of a mess.

“Spidey!” He greets, blood dripping off his sword. “I know I ask this every time, but I just gotta check, man. You seen anyone named Brenner around?”

“Still a no, sorry.”

He sighs, wiping off his blade before sticking it back in the sheath. “Worth a shot.”

“Do you ever talk to people from your old life?” Jonathan blurts out. “Before you became a superhero?”

Deadpool shrugs nonchalantly, but he can’t pass off the tension in his shoulders. “They all think I’m dead,” he says. “It’s better that way.”

“Didn’t you have a girlfriend? Or friends? Parents?”

“Friends, not really. Parents, no. Girlfriend…she’s better off this way.” He says, counting on his fingers. He laughs bitterly. “I stopped talking to my parents before I even got diagnosed, and my only friend was my girlfriend. I dumped all the other ones for being assholes after…well, some shit went down, and they were real dicks about it, that’s all I’m gonna say.” He turns to Jonathan, suspicious. “Why the third-degree?”

“What’s dying like?”

“Pretty chill, actually,” he says. Jonathan turns to look at him, and he gets the impression Deadpool is grinning. “Don’t get me wrong, the dying part? That fucking suuuuuucks. But Death itself isn’t so bad. I usually just chill with Her for a while before She sends me back.”

“...Her?”

“Oh yeah, The Lady loves me. We’re besties.”

“You’re besties,” he repeats flatly. “With Death.”

“What? Like that’s so hard to believe, Mr. Radioactive Spider?”

He’s got him there. “What’s Death like then? The…Lady, or whatever.”

“Well, first of all, she’s a massive lesbian.”

Jonathan should have known nothing that came out of his mouth would be fucking normal. “I’m leaving.”

“No, wait!” Deadpool grabs his arm. “I’m being serious! Death is a lesbian, she loves birds and prefers to go by Robin, and we’re apparently soulmates.”

“…are you a girl?”

“No?”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“C’mon, Spidey, open your mind.” If he could see his face, he knows that bastard would be smirking at him. “We’re not romantic. She actually hated me at first. I mean we’re literally tied together by the universe. Whatever souls are made of, hers and mine are the same.’

“Is that Emily Bronte?”

“Look who paid attention in high school english!”

He misses his bed.

#Spiderman au #stoncy #nancy wheeler #steve harrington #jonathan byers #photographer jonathan #i kept seeing all these posts like ‘Steve is Spiderman’ ‘Eddie is Spiderman’ well I would like to submit my take #Jonathan byers as spiderman #Nancy as both reporter mj and Vanessa (is that Deadpool’s gfs name?)#Steve as deadpool #Robin as Lady Death bc I saw something that said in the comics deadpool can’t die bc death is in love with him and I said hmmm I can stobin #I had a lot of fun writing this can you tell #stranger things fanfic

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vampyrenn · 2 years

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Fabric and First Dates (Steve Harrington x F!Plus! Reader)

♡ 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 ♡

♡ 𝕽𝖊𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖘𝖙 𝕽𝖚𝖑𝖊𝖘 ♡

♡ 𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝕿𝖜𝖔 𝕳𝖊𝖗𝖊! ♡

↠ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣: Steve Harrington x Reader ⌈Stranger Things⌋

↠𝕊𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: A ‘chance’ meeting brings Steve Harrington into your life after high school, in a different way than before.

↠𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕕 ℂ𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 6.3K (oops)

↠𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: SPOILER FREE!! (Set sometime in 86 but no show plot yet) Explicitly Plus Size!Reader, anxiety issues surrounding weight and eating (Very lightly mentioned here), feminine clothing and identifiers used, no Y/N, one instance of clothes-sharing but it’s mentioned as a larger leather jacket reader doesn’t fully put on, Steve being a massive simp

↠𝔸/ℕ: So unfortunately I’ve had to split this into at least 2 parts because it just got so long, hopefully people enjoy it and are excited for part two since I’m already writing it haha. Part two will go a lot more in depth, this is really just the fun intro to my baby seamstress and Steve’s story. I love them dearly. Also reader has an invented friend named Claire, I tried to pick an unpopular name these days but I’m sorry for ruining your immersion Claires! You’re friend shaped! FEEDBACK IS ALWAYS APPRECIATED!! THANK YOU!!

»»————- ♡ ————-««

Fabric

Indiana summers were hot. The kind of scorching that made your skin stick to your clothes and melted your sandals into the sidewalk if you stood still for too long. It was only nine, but already the sun seemed determined to cook the entirety of Hawkins alive.

Luckily for you, the small crafts shop you worked at had just splurged on a new AC, so you were living the dream, tucked away in a corner, fixing messy displays that just happened to be right under an air vent and mouthing off with Claire, your best friend turned coworker. You barely ever got customers, usually just stay-at-home moms and grandmothers restocking their craft rooms once a month, so neither of you felt too bad about abandoning the register before noon.

“Look, I’m just saying that I think Evil Dead is way better.”

“And I’m just saying that you’re dead wrong.” You poked her in the side, glaring playfully, “Nightmare on Elm Street is clearly superior.”

“You only like it because it came out a few months after we graduated. It’s like your nostalgia movie or something.”

“It’s my ‘celebrating getting the hell out of there’ movie.” Claire giggled, rolling her eyes at you before slotting the last of the samples in its proper place and stepping back to admire her work. Before you could start once again expanding on how Elm Street was perfect and Claire was obviously just ‘nostalgic’ for weird cabins, the bell on the door chimed. You glanced at each other, confused. It was pretty early in the day for any of the usuals, and well, in Hawkins, you didn’t get much besides the usual coming in. this was definitely out of place.

Claire, always the people person, approached the door while you retreated to the counter. The overly polite ‘Hello, how can I help you?’ from her tipped you off that this wasn’t a regular customer. You looked up, mildly curious about what random person suddenly developed an interest in handcrafts, and honey brown eyes met yours.

Steve Harrington.

Quickly averting your gaze, you fumbled to look busy, like somehow that would make him instantly forget you’d just been looking. Picking up a floss catalog and flipping through it, you silently prayed he didn’t remember you. If he did, you hoped at least, the memory was a little bit better than the sad reality.

You’d never had any kind of relationship with Steve, friendly or otherwise, but for a few embarrassing years in high school you’d had a huge crush on him. That all faded away as he started hanging out with Tommy and Carol, dating Nancy Wheeler, and you were more focused on avoiding them than cooing over him in the cafeteria. You were lucky enough to scrape by, as easy as it would have been to single you out, the chubby loner with two friends who made her own clothes. Even after Tommy stopped hanging around him, and Nancy broke up with him the year you graduated, it felt too late by then. Your worlds were too far apart, or so you thought.

Now they were colliding, and you couldn’t decide whether you were happy or petrified. Probably both.

The blood rushing in your ears prevented you from hearing the rest of their conversation, but Claire was at your side just a few seconds later, nudging you with her elbow while Steve disappeared down an aisle.

“Whoa.” She mumbled. You breathed out a laugh, setting the stupid catalog down and bumping her back with your own elbow.

“Whoa,” you agreed, and after a short pause added, “do you think he found his passion for embroidery?”

Claire snorted, clapping a hand over her mouth to disguise the noise and shaking her head at you, eyes full of both irritation and amusement. “If he hears you, I’m not sticking around for a repeat of King Steve’s wrath.” She whispered.

“I heard he’s gotten nicer since then.” You murmured, and she shrugged.

Claire had been your friend since high school, and you both had the same luck with popularity. Outcast, not bullied but not well liked, barely even remembered. It was a shame, really, since she would have made a great cheerleader; pretty, kind, and athletic to boot, but it just didn’t happen. You weren’t complaining, she was your best friend because of it after all, but you always felt a twinge of regret for her.

Maybe for yourself, too.

“He’s been staring at that wall rack for, like, 10 minutes. I don’t think he knows what he’s doing.”

Torn out of your little pity party, you followed her gaze to one of the large overhanging racks, different fleeces and flannels on display just above Steve’s head. He was directly across from them, hands calmly at his sides, unmoving as a statue. You watched him for a minute, and in that time he didn’t move to flip through the samples or even touch one once.

“I mean, it’s summer in Indiana. Why is he looking at fleece?” She continued, giggling. Humming in agreement, you rounded the counter and started slowly approaching him.

As fun as it was to sit behind the counter and laugh at the once most popular guy in school floundering over sewing scissors, you had a job to do, and even if you wanted to avoid it (you weren’t sure you did), it was clear that he wasn’t going to figure out anything on his own.

Hell, he might not even move before closing at this rate.

“I got it.” You called to Claire over your shoulder, waving for her to stay behind the counter. She was a people pleaser, so you-the snarky one, your boss called you sometimes-usually hung back, but you tried to trade off on customers equally. You told yourself that was the only reason you offered, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the burning curiosity of Why is he here? And What is he like now?

Absolutely nothing at all.

“You know, most people at least touch the fabric they’re trying to buy.” His shoulders stiffened and he whipped around, staring at you in a mix of surprise and embarrassment, and despite yourself it made you smile, just a slight twitch of your lip as you looked up at him. It took him a second, but he returned it, and the sweetness of it made you dizzy. You had been expecting a smug grin or a grimace, but he looked genuinely happy that you had come to his rescue. Your heart stuttered.

He’s only gotten more pretty. So unfair.

“Uh, Yeah I…” he trailed off, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck, and his expression seemed more playful than embarrassed now that he was talking to you. His eyes lit up in recognition the next second. “Hey, we went to high school together, right?” He said your name like he was certain he was right, and you nodded, lips parting in shock.

“Wow, I’m surprised you remember.” You were, only because it had been a few years and you really hadn’t ever interacted, but you didn’t miss the way your words made him wince, his smile dimming slightly. Fuck. backpedaling as you shook your head, you blurted, “Not because I was a loser, it’s just been so long. But everyone in Hawkins went to school together so it’s a safe guess…”

Excellent save. Can I just die now?

You wrapped your arms around your torso, trying to shield yourself, but Steve laughed a little, like he thought you were actually trying to be funny, and the sound warmed you down to your toes. You smiled a little wider, and the small knot of tension in your stomach came undone all at once.

Three minutes in Steve’s presence, and you were convinced that he wasn’t the same boy he used to be, and you liked this one much more.

“It hasn’t been that long.” He countered, crossing his arms in mock defiance. He was bigger than you remembered too, his chest filled out even more, biceps flexing while he moved, and you attempted to ignore it and focus on not making an ass of yourself. The last thing you needed was to come off as a creep.

“I see we aren’t denying the loser part. Cold, Harrington.” Now you were trying to be funny, and the crinkles near his eyes told you it was working. You felt oddly proud, being able to joke about this with him, like you were old friends and not almost total strangers.

“I kinda thought it’d be weirder to deny it. Do you want me to?”

“For my ego? Yes. But it’s too late now, you’ve wounded my pride.” Your hand fluttered to your chest and you sighed dramatically, “how can I ever recover from this crushing blow?”

He hummed, rocking back and forth on his heels and thinking for a second before declaring like it was the simplest solution in the world, “You could give me your number.”

What?

“What?” You could barely breathe the word out, staring at his casual expression in total bewilderment. Frozen in place, you watched his face flush a baby pink, and he stumbled over his words to explain.

“No, I mean-okay. I’m trying to make this thing, a scarf. Just…to try it. But clearly,” he huffed, gestured vaguely behind him to the shelves lining the walls, “I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m asking you for help. It would make you, like, the coolest person in the world.”

Your eyes narrowed, and he had the decency to look a little sheepish, pushing the stray hairs that had fallen over his face back and avoiding your eyes. You had a strange feeling about his reasoning, you couldn’t quite put your finger on it but decided to let it go since this was your first real conversation. Better to keep it friendly.

“This sounds like an excuse for you to get some extra help out of me.” You wagged your finger at him playfully, “But I’ll call it even, since I get to tease you the whole time.”

“You’re an angel.”

Looking down so he couldn’t see how flustered just a simple comment made you, you dug in your work apron, producing a thick black marker with a little ta-da motion to Steve, and he stuck his hand out for you to write your landline on. You focused on writing each number perfectly, so you could stop thinking about how big his hands were.

You drew a little smiley face too, just because you wanted to. When you finished, he pulled his hand back and looked at it, a soft huff of a laugh leaving him when he saw your masterpiece. Suddenly, you were nervous, breaking eye contact to stare at your sneakers. He seemed to be too, taking a quick step back and shoving both of his hands into the pockets of his blue jeans.

“So…I’ll call you sometime.”

“Okay. Cool.” You bobbed your head.

“Cool.” A few more steps back, near the door, he pulled one hand out of his pocket and gave you a quick thumbs up before turning and hauling ass out of the store.

It was the lamest thing you’d ever seen Steve Harrington do, and it had you melting into the floor like you were sixteen again.

You couldn’t spend too long dazing over his smile, however, because Claire was rushing towards you, barely containing her wild grin.

“Oh my god!” She squealed, gripping your arms and shaking you.

“Jesus, what?” You jostled, breaking out of her grip and flipping her off. “You’re so damn nosy, were you listening the entire time?”

She ignored you.

“Don’t ‘what’ me! Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington was flirting with you! He asked for your number!”

“It’s not like that Claire, are you joking? He wanted help with a scarf, he’s hopeless. It’s like overtime with no pay.” You said lightly, shoving aside the hopeful stirrings Claire was riling up. Steve was, at least at some point, one of the most sought after guys in Hawkins. It was stupid to even hope that he was interested in you. You were no Nancy Wheeler, not even close.

“Babe.” Claire giggled, a knowing grin on her lips as she took your hands and patted them. “He’s making a scarf in July?”

You shook your head, yanking your hands away from her grip and ducking past her to return to the counter before she could see the stupid smile spreading over your face, “It’s probably just some practice before Christmas or something!”

“He didn’t buy anything!” She sing-songed from the aisle.

Your face burned hot.

Safety Pins

A small part of you wondered if Steve would even remember the conversation at all. In the days after he appeared in the store, blatantly lying about making a scarf on the hottest day of the year, you convinced yourself that you’d made up the entire ridiculous interaction in your head, and then the phone finally rang.

The first time was two days after he’d come to the store (not that you’d been waiting), and you forced yourself to wait for three rings before picking up. You were desperate to seem casual, like you totally hadn’t been sitting right next to the extension every night since, an equal mix of desperate and curious, running through everything you could possibly say if he ever called.

“Hello?” Strong start.

“Hey, it’s Steve.” he paused, like he was waiting for you to say something before continuing, “I...bet you wanna know why I’m calling?” The way he said it like he wasn’t even sure himself had you biting back a laugh. This was clearly a golden opportunity to mess with him, and who were you to deny such a gift?

“It’s not about the scarf?” You asked in mock surprise. “And here I thought it was so important.”

He groaned, sounding embarrassed, but not at all surprised you’d already caught him out. “You’re worse than Dustin. Have you always been this sarcastic?”

“Who’s Dustin?”

“Annoying kid I babysit.” His voice was full of fondness despite his words, and you smiled to yourself, heart squeezing. “He’d love you, I bet.”

“Don’t try and be cute and change the subject. Are you going to tell me why you lied about making a scarf in July??”

“Maybe I just wanted to talk to the pretty girl working there. Is that so bad?” The smile in his voice was unmistakable, even if there was a slight shake of nerves.

Biting your lip to try to contain your giddiness, you hummed. “Maybe you should have gotten her number then, I don’t play wing man.” Even though you were joking, there was a thorn of truth in it. Claire was pretty and social, and it wasn’t uncommon for guys to come into the store just to hit on her. Steve huffed, clearly not amused with you dancing around the obvious.

“You’re hilarious.” he deadpanned, “I wanted to talk to you.”

“And your plan was to stand there and look pathetically lost until I came to help you?”

“Worked, didn’t it?” His smug tone shut you up, rolling your eyes silently as he continued, “I actually wanted to ask you out.” he said it so casually it almost didn’t register with you, but he didn’t keep talking, just sat in silence and waited for you to catch up. His patience made your stomach twist in the best way.

“Like a date?” You finally asked, slow and disbelieving.

“Yes, like a date. Are you just trying to avoid answering me?” You sort of were. It didn’t seem real, despite all the signs, despite Claire grabbing your hand and winking at you when she left, saying Tell Harrington I said hi when he calls!

It just didn’t make sense. Unless…

“Are you going to Carrie me?”

“What?” He scoffed, far away from the receiver like he’d pulled the phone away from his ear in shock.

“I think it’s a simple question, Steve.”

“No! Where would I even get a bucket of pig's blood?” His warm voice was indignant, and you giggled, could imagine his furrowed brows and slight pout perfectly on the other end of the phone. You were grateful that for now he didn’t seem to be pushing for an answer, letting you circle around the topic. As much as you wanted to agree, to toss yourself into the fantasy you’d cultivated for years in highschool, you didn’t want to make this easy for him, like so many other girls in Hawkins.

A little selfishly, you wanted to be a girl he wanted enough to work for. Hopefully, he would. Otherwise, you were about to make the stupidest decision of your life.

Sighing softly and shaking your head like he could see it, you breathed out, “I dunno… I’m going to need a bit more convincing, Harrington.” You prayed he heard the subtle challenge in the words, and you knew he did when he responded, confidence suddenly so apparent through the phone you wondered why he had seemed so nervous before.

“I can do that, Sweetheart.”

You were never more grateful you had begged your parents for your own extension in high school, because after that first conversation, Steve called almost every day. It was endearing, how eager he seemed to talk to you, stealing fifteen minutes at work ‘just to hear your voice’, keeping you up late to gently pester you about taking you out.

Just one date, he’d say teasingly, and then you’ll be the one asking, Sweetheart. The nickname had stuck since the first call, and it warmed you to your core every time he said it. you knew from the moment he breathed it into the receiver that you would eventually agree to whatever he wanted.

It took him a few weeks of talking and some surprise visits at work (Much to Claire’s delight), but you finally agreed one afternoon, and the happiness radiating off of him while he walked out of the store made you wish you hadn’t waited so long.

Seam Allowance

It was only a few days before your first date excitement wore off, being replaced with bone deep anxiety and a feeling that you were drawn tight with tension, like a rubber band that might snap.

Claire came over hours before the date to help you get ready, bursting with excitement and about a dozen ‘I-told-you-so’s’, and now you were both sitting on your bed sorting through your jewelry; she was wearing your pajama pants and an old shirt from middle-school, an amusing contrast to your perfectly pinned hair and high heels.

“You’re coming back tonight, right?” she asked, holding a pair of golden hoops up to your skin before wrinkling her nose and putting them back into the box.

“Duh. Where else would I go?” It was a system you’d both made up high school, and one you’d never strayed from. If one of you went on a first date the other would wait at her house, to make sure she came home safe and also to get all of the gossip as soon as the date was over. Claire used it much more often than you, but she still grinned, waggling her eyebrows at you and whistling a low note like you were naughty teenagers again.

“I dunno, Babe, you look gorgeous. Harrington might wanna see the inside seam of that dress.” She lowered her voice in an attempt to sound sensual, leaning in close while you shoved her away, scoffing at her terrible innuendo. The dress was one of her favorites, something you’d bought at a thrift store and altered yourself the summer you’d both graduated. It was bright and flowy, the pink silk draping to your mid-thigh, a mix of sweet and sexy that you’d started wearing after high school, away from prying eyes and insults.

The irony of wearing it to a date with King Steve was not lost on you.

“Please,” you huffed, looking away with the excuse of checking a necklace in the mirror, tossing it back in the pile without much thought, “he already knows what I look like, the dress won’t fool him.” Claire frowned, her playful mood dissolved.

“What do you mean by that?”

Shaking your head, you murmured, “I mean, he already knows what I look like…how I looked in high school,” you cringed, shaking your head, “not all pretty and perfect. Not thin. I feel like I might be trying too hard. Being tricky.” The words sat like acid in your mouth, but Claire instantly threw her arms around you in a hug, laughing a little. It got to you more than it should have.

“Are you laughing at me?! I bare my soul to you, and you’re laughing!”

“Yes!” she admitted, still giggling even as she pulled away to look at you again. “You’re being stupid. He knows how you look normally. He knows how you looked in high school. So what? He still asked you out.” she poked your chest with each word, speaking over you every time you tried to interrupt. “The only thing that’s going to happen is that he’s going to see you looking pretty, not tricky, drool all over himself, and be like, ‘Ooh, Baby, you’re so beautiful and perfect let’s get marr-’”

Clapping a hand over her mouth to stop her terrible imitation of Steve, you couldn’t contain your laughter, shaking your head at her. Claire was always your biggest supporter and cheerleader, and she always seemed to know exactly what to say when you needed it, even if it was stupid and corny and probably not true. You pulled your hand away when she calmed, and you smiled at her, grateful. She smiled back.

“You know, you’re constantly saying Steve isn’t who he used to be. You always forget that you’re not the same girl either.” She winked, pressing a pair of rose gold and pearl earrings into your hand. “These are the ones, by the way. I can feel it.” You swallowed, a ball of emotion and affection suddenly welling up in your throat, Sticky sweet.

Is this what having a sister feels like?

The doorbell rang before you could say anything, and Claire grabbed your purse while you rushed to put the earrings in. She looked you over one last time, nodding her enthusiastic approval and you thanked whatever God was out there that you had her support while you tried to ignore the tears pricking your eyes. She hugged you quickly and firmly, whispering “Go get ‘em, tiger.” and ushering you down the stairs.

—

Steve guided you through the crowded diner with a hand on your lower back, following the hostess closely. The gesture was unfamiliar, embarrassingly intimate in such a public place but also comforting, so you didn’t say anything, just let the heat of his palm burn into your skin until he pulled your chair out for you, always the gentleman.

You felt out of place as you sat down; The bright, tacky colors of the diner contrasted harshly with the soft pastels and curves of your clothes, and your anxiety licked fire-hot up your throat, feeling at once too overdressed and not good enough. Steve noticed as soon as he sat down, but he had enough sense to wait until the waitress was gone, reaching across the table slowly to take your hand. He gave you space to pull away, and when you didn’t, he rewarded you with a grin, the flicker of nerves in his face smoothed over with boyish charm.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t take you somewhere a little nicer…” He gestured to the full tables, but turned back to you with a hopeful glint in his eye. “But I’m really happy you agreed to come.” he squeezed your hand, looking up into your face to gauge your reaction. He must have found what he was looking for because he relaxed completely, although he didn’t let go of your hand on the table. You didn’t mind. “You look amazing, by the way. Have I told you that tonight?”

He did tell you, once at your doorstep, at least two times in the car, and now here. Even if he hadn’t, you could tell just by the way his eyes had trailed up your legs when you walked out onto your porch, mapping out the soft expanse of your exposed thigh while you climbed into his car, the way his gaze slightly heated on your naked shoulders. It was pretty obvious what he thought.

Still, you rolled your eyes playfully, a doubtful smile spreading across your face. “Only a million times.”

“And I’ll say it a million more.” His tone was casual, but you could hear something soft and intense in it, like he knew you didn’t believe him and he was desperate to prove you wrong. “You’re gorgeous. A stunner.”

“Stop.”

“Total knockout. What’re you doing on a date with a guy like me?” He used his free hand and jerked his thumb into his chest, eyes sharp and mischievous, but then he looked away, just for a moment, like he was actually nervous about your answer. Concern unfurled in your chest in an instant, and you leaned forward, squeezing his hand tighter than he had yours.

“You’re beautiful.” You murmured, running your thumb over his knuckles. As much as you wanted to recite terrible poetry to him, say he was Eros himself, carved of flesh instead of stone by the Great Masters, tell him how often you’d listened to him whisper over the phone late at night these past weeks, twisting the cord around your finger and imagining drawing constellations between his beauty marks with your fingertips, it felt like too much for a first date, in a loud diner where anyone could hear, so you said the first thing you could think of. you hoped it had the same effect on Steve either way.

His smile threatened to consume his face, his eyes bright half moons as he beamed at you. “Yeah? Beautiful?” He tossed his hair arrogantly, pulling his hand away from yours to run his fingers through the silken strands, wrists and forearms flexing. Your mouth went dry and it was the best you could do to nod dumbly, trying desperately to grasp a coherent thought.

“Sorry, that was weird.” You shook your head as if to clear your thoughts. “Beautiful is a weird word. Handsome?” You tried, but you were dissatisfied. Handsome didn’t feel like enough, too rough around the edges to include Steve, with his sweet smiles and stupid jokes. It wasn’t enough. Steve was shaking his head too, the moment you’d started backtracking.

“No, no,'' he leaned back, subtly gesturing his head to warn you the waitress was approaching behind you, his wild grin dimming down into something softer and more vulnerable. “Beautiful is… no one’s ever called me that before. You’re my first.” He waggled his eyebrows at you, like the innuendo wasn’t obvious enough, and that molten rush of affection returned, warmth spreading from your face to your sternum; then you processed what he’d said before that, and you raised your eyebrows in surprise.

How could someone like Steve go so long without being called beautiful?

“That’s insane,” then, after a second, “You really are.” Before you could stop yourself. You bit your lip in embarrassment, and his eyes dropped to follow the action, just a flicker before looking back. He took your hand again, rubbing the pad of his thumb across your knuckles soothingly, but his eyes didn’t leave your face once.

“So are you.” The way he was looking at you made you want to believe it, like he was in awe of you, studying your features like he was committing them to memory. You felt warm under his gaze, but before you could make a snarky comment and ease some of your anxiety, the waitress was at your table, and Steve wasn’t looking at you anymore.

You had expected to completely clam up over dinner, but Steve kept you distracted and laughing the entire time, and you were having too much fun to worry about if he thought you were eating too much or trying too hard. You knew from the rumors he was always charming, girls chased him for years when you were younger, but having the full force of it directed on you was something you'd never experienced before. You could see why he had been popular. Steve actually listened when you talked, like he was interested in you. It was depressingly refreshing.

You’d been telling him a story about work, offhandedly mentioning a top you were making when he stopped your story in its tracks. “So wait, you make your own clothes?” He looked pleasantly surprised.

“I mean, kinda. Not all of them. I make some of them. They don’t make cute clothes in my size so…” You shrugged it off like it didn’t matter, eyes on your plate, trying to ignore the admiration in his gaze as his jaw dropped. His eyes followed the slope of your shoulders to the dresses thin straps, one having fallen half down without you noticing. “I do it myself. Didn’t you know this when you asked for my help in the store?”

“Did you make this one?” Steve’s voice was almost reverent when he brought up your dress, ignoring your snark completely. He reached one hand towards you, impossibly delicate fingers sliding the strap back up your arm and into place. It must have only been a second before he was leaning back in his chair and popping a French fry into his mouth, but you felt like your world had stopped. You searched your cloudy brain for the answer to his question. You barely remembered what he asked.

“I altered it, yeah.” The only way you could describe the look on his face was dazzled, and you bit your lip, fingers itching to reach out and trace the planes of his face with your hands. You wanted him to look at you like this forever, like you were ethereal and special; you settled instead for shyly turning away. First date and all.

“You’re crazy talented. I was always thinking about where you got all your pretty little outfits, then I find out you make them?” Your heart squeezed at the idea of him, sitting in his car, or at home, thinking about the clothes you wore, wondering where you got them and keeping notes of your outfits; choosing a favorite. He shook his head in disbelief, eyes meeting yours again in cowed respect. “You’re really something.” And you knew he meant it.

“Yeah, well… you ever need something fitted, call me.” You winked, not catching the innuendo until Steve was already pouncing, smile turned wicked.

“Is that an invitation?”

“Oh my God, You’re such a perv.” You giggled, the happy glint in his eyes more than worth your slight embarrassment at the joke.

“I’m not hearing a no…”

“I’m hearing the complaints the mothers in the diner are filing against us right now…” you hummed, and Steve grimaced, glancing around while you admired the worry lines in his forehead, fighting the urge to lean over and smooth them with your thumb.

“Thank God the check already came then. Let’s get outta here.” He stood up while you laughed at him, already digging in his pockets for his wallet. You grabbed your purse and slid out of your chair, scrambling to find your own, wondering if he’d wanted you to offer to cover anything.

“I can pay for half-“

“Don’t even think about it.” He tossed a few bills on the table, sounding offended you had even offered. You let it go, deciding to save yourself the bickering since you knew he’d never let you pay. Steve’s hand found the small of your back again as he led you out, like it was just instinct, being protective. The thought sent jolts down your spine.

The diner had grown significantly quieter since you’d both arrived, but there were still a decent amount of full tables, and you appreciated the sudden wall of quiet when you both stepped outside. Evening had bled into night in the hours you’d spent with Steve, the hazy sun now completely gone, leaving behind a surprising chill despite the season.

You rubbed your arms quickly, trying to acclimate to the sudden cold, and of course, Steve noticed immediately. Even though you argued, since you would only be outside for as long as it took to walk to his car and get in, he still draped his leather overcoat over your shoulders, and when you caught a whiff of his cologne, and him underneath, you stopped complaining. The leather was soft from use, and you were careful not to scratch it with your nails while you gripped the lapels to keep it around your shoulders.

“Why do you even have a jacket? It was pretty warm earlier.” You asked, watching him fumble in his back pockets for his keys. He glanced at you for a second and the realization hit you. “You brought it just in case? For me?”

Smiling guiltily, he unlocked the doors. “Hey, don’t ever say Steve Harrington isn’t a romantic.”

Watching him walk around the car just to open your door for you, jogging so you wouldn’t open it yourself, you just shook your head. “How could I?” you breathed, and you knew there were obvious hearts in your eyes.

Steve didn’t comment, but you could see the smug look on his face when he helped you into the car-for a wild second you thought about kissing it off of him, he was just so pretty- but you waited until he climbed into the driver's seat to speak again, staring out the front window while he put the keys in the ignition.

“Next time, you’ll be wearing my jacket, Harrington.” You promised; something about the dark and quiet of the night outside made you drop your voice, more heated than you intended, and the blush that rose to his ears at your words made your chest swell with pride.

Steve bounced back to being perfect and charming, and for the entire drive home, he held your hand in his on the center console, a satisfied smile on his face.

The ride back was short, and too soon Steve was in your driveway, turning the car off, the only light coming from your old, orange porch bulb. He cleared his throat, breaking the comfortable silence that had fallen when you pulled up.

“Let me walk you to the door.” It wasn’t a question; he was already unbuckling his seat belt and jumping out to open your door again. A part of you wanted to hop out before he could, just to tease him about how far he was going, but watching him jog around the front of the car just to impress you was far more rewarding. He offered you his hand wordlessly and you took it, letting him pull you out of the car.

Standing outside of your door, bathed in the warm flickering light, Steve was too pretty to look at, even though you wanted to burn the memory in your head. His skin looked tan and soft, brown eyes almost black in the shadow. You looked at your feet, toeing your heels into the mat under them.

“I had fun tonight, Sweetheart.” He says carefully, gauging your reaction, and you smile shyly, glancing back up at him. He’s not smiling, but he looks open and earnest. He’s waiting for you to respond, you realize, so you do.

“So did I.” You breathe, and his lip twitches. He takes a step towards you and you don’t move back, letting him start to slowly crowd your space on the porch. “Even if those kids wouldn’t shut up for like 30 minutes.” You joke, and he laughs, a short huff through his nose that stops as soon as it starts.

“Next time, we’ll go somewhere quieter, promise.” Despite his response to your ‘next time’ quip earlier, you had been dreading the chance that this was a one time thing, that he was being polite and a good date and after this he was going to realize you weren’t a cheap lay because of your weight, or get cold feet, exactly the way most of your pathetic romances ended. The idea that he wanted to see you again was unfamiliar and exciting.

“Next time?” Your voice was soft and vulnerable, and Steve looked at you like you were crazy.

“How else am I going to steal that jacket from you?” He took another step, and you had to crane your neck to look up at his serious expression. One of his hands came up, hesitating before resting delicately on your face, his calloused thumb rubbing soothing lines over your cheek. “I’m committed to the idea, now.”

You hummed, closing your eyes as he continued to ghost his fingers over your features. The feeling was indescribable. “Oh well, you’ll need it when I never give this one back.” You pulled the lapels of his jacket again, and instead of responding he moved his hand from your jaw to the nape of your neck, gently guiding you towards him.

You panicked, suddenly unsure if you were even ready for a simple goodnight kiss, let alone a make out session on your porch, but he was impossibly slow and gentle while he pulled you towards him, and you opened your eyes when you felt his lips in your hair, one hand on the curve of your neck and the other rubbing soothing circles into your soft hip. He pulled away just enough to murmur into your hairline, lips indulgent and sweet,

“You can take whatever you want, pretty girl.” he sounded hoarse and wanting, and it nearly took your breath away. All of your willpower -and remembering your best friend was still upstairs, waiting- was barely enough to convince you to untangle yourself from him, but you did. He kissed your forehead one more time before finally letting you slip inside, still wrapped snugly in his coat. “I’ll call you.” He said gently as you crossed the threshold. You giggled.

“Yeah, I know.”

Watching his car make its way down the street from your bedroom window, Claire shutting off the lights and settling in for the nights gossip session, you knew all you’d have taken was him.

#steve harrington x reader #Steve Harrington fanfic #steve harrington x you #steve harrington imagine #Steve Harrington #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington x fem!reader #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #stranger things #renrites #xreader #plus size reader #fem reader #seamstress

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bluedalahorse · 10 months

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wlw in the sad swedish teens show: some thoughts

I’m going to share some stedrika thoughts, not as a meta, just as a kind of… sharing of my unsolicited personal opinions. There was a thread going around with some idea-provoking discussion, but I also feel like I’d be hijacking said thread if I weighed in. So I figured it was better to make my own post and chat there.

So I’m aro ace, but I also kind of identify with the label sapphic. I’m more gray ace than full ace, and that grayness of ace identity is 90% of the time directed toward women. I was in a romantic-sexual partnership with a woman for 2.5 years before figuring more things out. (Also, my ex was pretty toxic, so there was that.) I attended a single-sex college, continue to hang in groups of women today, and just generally exist in a social culture that leans more sapphic/wlw, homosocial, and ace. Probably the most masculinity-dominated experiences I have are logging onto my dash and watching fandom interaction that is a lot more mlm-focused than the rest of my life.

In the gap between seasons 1 and 2, I wasn’t hoping for stedrika as my wlw representation. I was hoping we would get gay or bi or ace or otherwise queer Felice. It isn’t too hard to make up a queer narrative for Felice. She connects with Wilhelm, who’s also figuring himself out, and we know how it is with the queer kids all finding one another even before they fully understand themselves what’s going on. Felice’s pursuit of Wilhelm and then pivoting to August also feels like she’s hitting the two ends of the spectrum of compulsory heterosexuality. Wilhelm is that nice, approachable boy where it’s easy to convince yourself you have a crush on him, because who wouldn’t? Also he’s a prince! August is that guy where you’re like “well if the idea of dating men is generally unpleasant all around, then dating the most unpleasant one is doing heterosexuality right, isn’t it?” Felice’s mom also puts a lot of pressure on her about boys (and that line about whose babies are royal feels like it’s something Felice would have been told growing up) in a way where you can parallel it to Kristina putting pressure on Wilhelm. There’s a lot of good queer and wlw material to work with for Felice! And I’m glad fandom hasn’t entirely given up on that, even if it doesn’t seem like canon is going that direction. (Send me your gay Felice fics where she’s the center of the story, btw. Send themmmm.)

Stedrika as wlw representation brushes up against the archetype of two femme best friends who are also roommates, one of whom is secretly pining for the other, one of whom may or may not be pining back. That archetype in its requited form is… not my favorite wlw archetype. I don’t mean I hate it, but I do mean I’m pretty “meh” about it. I read a lot of YA fiction, for both personal enjoyment and career reasons. Best-friends-to-lovers wlw comes up a lot, especially in stories where a wlw couple isn’t the center of the story. It can be enjoyable for me, if the characterization is complex enough overcome the trope itself. But I can’t help noticing how many mlm YA stories let a boy crush on the hot new boy, or someone outside his usual social circle, whereas the message for girls is “the one for you has been near you all along! Girls achieve an adventure by clicking their heels and saying There’s No Place Like Home!”

I understand that the sapphic girl with a crush on her bestie is a trope that has some basis in reality, and for some folks it can be really empowering to see those kinds of pairs get a Happily Ever After together. I also think it can be empowering for the female character with the sapphic crush to come to the realization (either through rejection or other circumstances) that her bestie isn’t going to like her back that way, but she does understand herself better now. And she’s going to use that knowledge to build herself up and explore new values and seek out new wlw relationships and join the queer revolution. Hahaha you can tell what sort of storyline I prefer. Truth be told I would be more interested in a story where Fredrika doesn’t requite Stella’s feelings and Stella has to reinvent herself than I would a story where suddenly they love each other. I’m sure the YR writing team would make the latter interesting too, but if they gave me a choice between the latter and the former and promised they would be equally well written, I’d pick the latter.

Here’s the other thing about stedrika. I don’t entirely find them boring. I do like them! This is going to sound like me being a problematic queer, maybe, but… I like the fact that they’re mean. Not in a “you go girl!” sort of way where I’m cheering on their meanness and tendency to gossip. I don’t want them to stay mean. But I do find it interesting that Stella at least is hiding some part of her authentic self, and she and Fredrika haven’t gotten to discuss something honestly, and the price they pay is lashing out at others for their authenticity, especially their authenticity around romantic feelings. I think there’s some interesting narrative questions to explore then, in terms of how do you learn to embrace others and yourself? What toll does it take, being closeted? How do you empower yourself within structures that are harming you—is hurting other people going to do it? Like gosh, that’s a whole character arc! I also think it’s really interesting how Lisa and the writing team have addressed the role that misogyny and assumptions around sex and physicality play in oppressing wlw queer folks. Like that whole discussion around what counts as “real sex” and losing one’s virginity that we see at Sara’s birthday sleepover. That was interesting to see play out onscreen and I’m glad they went there! (Send me your fics about messy stedrika, send themmmm. Send these girls on some kind of journey.)

Anyway, I’m also glad that stedrika is not the only wlw representation we have in Young Royals. Because we also have Rosh, who I absolutely adore with every fiber of my being. Rosh isn’t white or upper class, and she’s more tomboyish and comparatively less femme. She talks about her rebound after dating Yasmin/Yasmina, and there’s this wonderful sapphic chaos quality to it. She’s an openly queer girl in a best friendship with an openly queer boy, and you can tell that she and Simon lean on one another and probably came out to one another in middle school. (I think I have read this fic a few times, but I will always read more of it!) I love Rosh’s sense of justice and how committed she is to athletics and making sure Simon succeeds on the rowing team even if, as we all know, rowing isn’t a sport. Overall Rosh feels very specific and that makes her very real. Also I can’t resist a confident soccer lesbian, obviously I imprinted on Keira Knightly and Parminder Nagra in Bend It Like Beckham like every other queer girl born in the late 1980s.

Anyway. I actually think YR has a ton to offer us in terms of potential wlw representation, and interesting stories and characters that can be explored. (It has a lot to offer us in terms of female characters, period. I wish I had the time and fandom knowhow to create a female character centered ficathon. Is there any interest out there?)

The weird thing is I don’t know if I would feel confident writing this post at all if I hadn’t put in over 100k words of effort in fanfic for this fandom, most of it from female characters’ POVs. Some of that is het, sure, but I’m really, really proud of the sapphic self-discovery arc we gave Felice in Heart and Homeland. We let her struggle with her feelings at a time when she didn’t have the vocabulary for her feelings. We let Felice have a 19th century romantic friendship with Sara while also having sex and romances with other women, because lesbians can do both dammit. We let her kiss other women on the page, and do additional things beyond kissing also on the page. She was the first character we upped our rating to M for! We let her have friends-with-benefits hookups (because wlw characters shouldn’t always have to meet their forevergirl in their first girl) and we’re developing a new relationship in the upcoming chapters. (Okay, we did accidentally erase stedrika, because we wrote the first 19 chapters of our fic before season 2, and made occasional blink-and-you-miss-it references to a Stella/Henry sideplot. But let’s just say additional things are happening in the coming chapters.) I’m really happy with Felice’s storyline. I’m also happy that for a long time, I was the kid in fandom sighing and wishing there was more femslash, while feeling bad bad because I hadn’t written any myself. But now I have, and it feels a bit like achieving a Life Goal. I’m proud of myself!

And if you want to write femslash of your own, but you’ve always been a little scared or unsure of how to start? Hi. I’ll be your sounding board and your biggest cheerleader, if you want that. Tell me and we’ll have a lot of fun planning and writing! I BELIEVE IN YOU AND YOU ARE AMAZING.

#young royals #stedrika #felice ehrencrona #rosh young royals #stella young royals #fredrika young royals #feels weird to not be tagging maddie i mean does anyone think maddie is actually straight #femslash #femslash and fandom

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moonshine-nightlight · 2 years

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Finally Woken: Part Seven

Working for the family business of traveling trade caravans, means you‘ve always accepted having to put up with a lot from your family, especially your dad. He finally goes to far when he tries to sell your prized possessions to make up for his own business failings. You’re proud of yourself for making a stand, but he’s not wrong when he says you don’t have any real connections outside the family–but he’s not completely right either.

Your closest friend happens to live in the city you’re stopped at so you decide to see if you can stay at his place until you can figure out what you’re going to. You’ve never come by the city this early, but he’s probably fully woken up from the naga’s traditional bout of hibernation by now, right?

Fantasy, friends to lovers, naga, male monster x female reader, M/F, Part 7 of 8

Story Status: Complete

AO3: Finally Woken Chapter 7

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] Part Seven [Part Eight - NSFW]

When you get home from a day that at least ended early, if rather disappointingly, you realize one thing right away: Heshi’s already awake.

Not only is he awake, he’s moving around and talking to someone. You can hear his voice from the foyer. Last night he’d said he was gonna see if he could wake up early enough for a full sunning on the roof to provide the final jolt out of hibernation—and the weather had certainly cooperated.

Instead of being excited he seems to be fully out of hibernation, tension shoots up your spine. The air in the apartment doesn’t feel fearful or angry, but it does feel feverish in some way, almost anticipatory. There’s a panic in his voice and movements, like he’s pacing, which makes it impossible for you not to feel nervous.

You can’t make out any of the words he’s saying, but you decide to drop your bag in the hall just in case you suddenly have your hands full with worried naga again. Some instinct of yours seems to be urging caution and it's any easy enough thing to do to appease it. Hesitantly, you walk over to the archway and peer further inside.

You spot Heshi in the kitchen but you notice right away that there’s no one else here. He seems to be talking to himself, gesturing emphatically along with his own words, but speaking fast enough you still can’t really follow what has him so agitated. Because he definitely is, agitated that is.

His hair is completely undone, flowing around his face and down his back in wild tendrils, all semblance of a braid long gone. He’s moving back and forth, changing height depending on how much of his tail he’s putting into the motion—something he rarely does as he likes to keep to a steady height. The difference is down to the way the bulk of his tail stays where it is, the tip flicking in time with his pacing. He’s also not wearing a shirt, which you knew he didn’t wear when he sunbathed, but is still rather unusual since he’s inside now.

You tell yourself your focus on his chest is just to see if he’s shivering—which he doesn’t appear to be. In fact, you blink in surprise: he almost looks flushed. The skirt he has on is loose and comfortable, but also hastily thrown on. Combined with the way his claws are unsheathed—a sure sign he’s expecting a threat–it’s more than enough to unsettle you further. Despite all this agitation, he still hasn’t even noticed your presence yet. You doubt it will take long though and you don’t want to scare him, especially not in this state.

You take a deep breath and step forward. “Heshi?”

His head whips around with lightning speed, pupils slit thin before blowing wide when he identifies who made the sound. He gasps out your name, looking at you with such shock that you instinctively freeze. He starts toward you before stopping himself, placing his hands on one of the tall kitchen tables as if to hold himself with it between you and him, despite him being several feet away on the other side of the room as it is.

“Uh, Heshi…?”

He seems to notice your confusion and visibly straightens, clearly trying to coach his rather wild facial expressions back to normal. It might have worked better if you hadn’t, you know, literally watched him do so.

“Hey,” his voice is breathy, but less desperate or shocked than when he had called your name. He clears his throat before continuing in an alright approximation of his usual voice, “how was your day?”

“Okay…” you reply slowly. It's clear he doesn’t want you to notice, or at least not to comment on, whatever is bothering him. You’re willing to play along, for now. You don’t want to spook him. “I guess.” While you talk, you try to see if you can spot a physical source of what might be bothering him. He doesn’t look visibly injured or sunburned—can naga get sunburned? “The shop had already sold my flute though.”

He sobers at your words, distracted enough by your news that he forgets to try so hard to be normal. He frowns and says sympathetically, “I’m sorry, that’s really too bad.” He makes an aborted motion towards you, like he’s going to come over to give you a hug but then he stops himself. You suddenly realize this is the longest it’s been since you woke him up from hibernation for him to be awake and aware of you and yet not touching you.

A pang of hurt goes through you at the thought that he might truly be done with hibernation and the long embraces will stop. You knew this would happen, you told yourself not to get used to it. You still feel an aching sense of loss that you try to shove to the side. You’ll deal with it when you’re inevitably sleeping alone again.

“If you’d like,” Heshi’s voice pulls you back to the present. He’s clearly trying to be upbeat, trying to cheer you up, but there’s a manic undertone to his voice that still worries you. “I could try to make you one? A flute, I mean. It’d be glass and not silver, but I’m sure it will sound just as pretty.”

He looks adorably earnest, but it's so obvious something is conspicuously off with him. “That, that would be really lovely,” you say truthfully, because it is a really sweet offer, and yet you can’t ignore this any longer. “But Heshi, what’s wrong?”

“Wrong?” he repeats anxiously. “Nothing’s wrong.” He winces when his voice pitches too high. He deliberately coughs before continuing, “In fact, my hibernation is officially over. So everything’s back to normal.”

You eye his very nervous smile at that proclamation and say, “Um, it’s really not.” You take a step closer, studying him as you continue in vain to try to figure it out yourself. “What’s wrong, Heshi?” You’re starting to really think he might be sick. Is this because you messed with his hibernation? You take another step closer, trying to peer around the table—a naga’s tail normally will give them away if there’s something wrong with their body and you can’t quite see it from where you’re at.

“Stop!” He holds out his hand, palm facing you. “Stay over there.” You immediately freeze, too surprised by his reaction to even say anything.

“Why?” you breathe, unsure of what you’ve done to make him more upset. You try to hide the illogical bit of hurt you feel at his words, but given how his face falls, you don’t manage it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking wretched and wringing his fingers, “but you really need to stay away.”

“Should I leave?” you offer, not sure what else to say. You want to understand, but you want him to feel better more so if you need to leave without an explanation, you will even if you know you’ll end up at wit’s end with worry.

“No!” he reaches out again, this time as if to pull you close. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his fingers to his forehead. “I mean, yes, probably. You shouldn’t be here while I’m like this. I’m so sorry.”

Any hurt or fear melts away in the face of his distress. “But what is this? Are you sick? Is it contagious? Should I find a healer?”

“No, well, sort of,” he pulls his fingers through his hair violently enough it almost looks like he’s pulling on it. He deflates, pressing one palm to the table and leaning on it. “Maybe you should.”

Before you can even think of how to respond, he continues talking, “I just don’t understand! This shouldn’t be happening.” He glares at the table top as if the pressed glass pattern he designed might hold all the answers.

Hesitantly, you say, “Are you sick or not? How can I help?” You swallow before venturing, “Is this because your hibernation got interrupted?”

He barely seems to hear you, talking to himself and keeping his eyes down as if purposely not looking at you. “Not sick, exactly. No illness. Hibernation, yes, yes. My sunsleep! That’s where it all starts but why? How?” He looks up and you can see his eyes are wildly dilated, now that yours have adjusted to the lower amount of light in here. “None of this makes any sense. It shouldn’t be possible.”

“What shouldn’t be possible?”

“I’m in heat!” The words burst out of his mouth without his permission and his grip on the table edge goes white-knuckled. He looks embarrassed as your mouth falls open, but he doesn’t take the declaration back even as he snaps his mouth shut tight.

“I’m sorry, you’re what?” you ask, mind spinning, even as you catalog his symptoms in a new light. He is flushed, you hadn’t realized ‘heat’ is quite so literal, but it clearly is. His breathing is too fast, but it's deep too, drawing your attention to his bare chest. The tension in his frame, the dilation of his eyes, your eyes nearly try to track down his body before the table and your own awareness of the situation stops you in your tracks.

You frantically try to remember everything you’ve heard about a naga’s heat. Heshi himself has only mentioned, in passing, that it happens after hibernation between mates, but that’s really all he’s said. Everything else you know, you picked up just, listening around. You haven’t been to help but wonder, what with having a naga friend. An attractive naga friend. An attractive naga friend you had a crush on.

Still, you’d never outright asked anyone—you’d never be able to get the words out—but you know it lasted more than a day, that there is a special significance placed on the first heat after marriage, and that the reason so many naga are born around the same time as a species is because the majority of them are the result of heated matings. Because obviously the other part is that anyone in heat wants to have sex—like, a lot. However, like Heshi himself had always seemed to suggest, you thought it only happened when they already have a partner and possibly only if that other partner was a naga.

“I mean,” your face feels warm and so does the rest of you at just the thought that Heshi might be…riled up—and he so clearly looks it too, now that you’re looking for that. “I thought, you needed, you know, a partner,” you manage to squeak out, “for that to, um, start.” How are you standing here talking about this with him? Is some god upset that your moving out went so well that they’ve thrown this in your path?

You almost feel like, now that you’re not worried he’s hurt or sick, that it's affecting you too. Could humans sense, smell, naga pheromones? Is it actually warmer in here?

“Sort of,” he says, a bit miserably, finger tracing along the table, drawing your eyes to the slender digit. “That’s what doesn’t make sense. I’m not with anyone or courting or anything so it shouldn’t be possible. You don’t need someone officially, but you do need someone with potential as a nestmate.”

A shiver of heat and jealousy goes down your spine at the word ‘nestmate’. You think he just means someone else who’d hibernated with him in the same nest—not an actual mate—but the only person even close to that description is you, if only for the last week, which sends a tendril of heat through you. The jealously is at even the thought of someone else, wrapped up in his arms, in his nest, waiting for him to awaken and… “Right,” you say quickly.

“There needs to be complementary pheromones in the air,” he continues explaining as if trying to prove to you why it shouldn’t be possible. “Someone interested in mating with you being close enough, often enough, during hibernation to trigger heat.”

“Oh,” you nod, again trying not to picture this hypothetical other naga that would make your Heshi all... “And you haven’t seen any other naga, right?”

“Well,” he hedges, “it wouldn’t have to be a naga actually.” He shrugs and you try so hard to keep your expression steady at that little admission. Before your mind can run with it, he continues, “but you’re missing the key: receptive. I would have to be around someone who wanted to mate with me.” He presses a hand to his chest before shrugging again. “And I’ve only seen you and Nell, so I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“I…” You swallow, sure your whole face must be turning red because if that’s what brought this on… “You’re sure that’s what’s happening?” If all that’s needed is someone interested in him, sharing his nest then…

He rubs the back of his neck, “I’ve gone into heat once before—years ago.” He gives a sharp nod. “I’m sure.”

Oh gods. This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. If the ground swallowed you up, would that make his stupid heat stop and prevent you from having the most embarrassing conversation of you life? After a second of nothing happening, you burst out with, “Then this is all my fault. I’m so sorry, Heshi.” You squeeze your eyes shut, cursing your stupid feelings for making things ha-difficult for your friend. “How do I make it stop?”

“Your fault?” Heshi’s face screws up in absolute bewilderment. “How in the world could this be your fault?”

“Because what you said earlier was wrong,” you say, trying to force the words out of your mouth, but they’re as jumbled as your thoughts are. “You… I… I didn’t know… I didn’t mean…”

He says your name, sounding calmer than he has all night, clearly trying to ground you, but it's not working because you have to tell him. There’s no getting around it.

“Darling, what are you—”

“I am, is the problem,” you blurt out, knowing it probably still sounds like nonsense. You hate putting yourself out there, but you have to say it. “Interested or receptive or…” You flap your hand uselessly in his general direction, unable to even look him in the eye.

“You…” The clear disbelief in his voice, lacking in recrimination as it is, does little to make you feel better.

“I swear I had no idea this would happen.” You finally look at him again, needing him to understand this wasn’t some horrible plan on your part, but he’s still just staring at you in shock. “I tried to sleep in my own bed. And there was only that one dream! Why didn’t you warn me that's what causes your, you know, heat?”

Heshi actually moves out from behind the table, his gaze intent, his expression surprisingly unreadable. You unthinkingly take a step back.Your stupid feelings did this to him, clouding his mind, overwriting his desires.

He tilts his head to the side. “Are you saying you find me attractive or that you have feelings for me?”

His voice doesn’t give away anything that he’s thinking. You shrug helplessly. “I mean, yeah. Both?”

You barely have time to blink, barely able to see something ripple across his expression before he’s across the room, in front of you. His strong fingers take hold of your chin, tilting you face up towards his. He slants his mouth over yours for a kiss before you can comprehend anything beyond how much heat he seems to be giving, so different than his usual temperature.

Then there’s nothing on your mind except the feeling of him pressed so close, the softness of his lips, how solid he is against you. Your hand wraps around his wrist, keeping him where he is and his arm slides around your waist—as it has so many times in the last few days—and yet everything is different this time as he pulls you against him. Your other hand curls over his shoulder as you return the kiss instinctively. He pulls away briefly, only to press another kiss to your lips, giving a light pull to first your top lip, then your bottom lip. He flicks his tongue against the seam of yours after that and you let out a gasp at the sensation.

He takes advantage of the opening, pressing even closer, his slender, adroit tongue slipping in. You slide your own against his, causing him to moan. That sound combined with the feeling of his fangs against your lips send a ripple of heat through your veins.

You tighten your grip on him as he kisses you. You never want him to let you go ever again, you think deliriously as his large hand strokes up and back down your back, encouraging you to arch into him. This is everything you ever wanted with him.

Everything you wanted.

The thought sends a shard of ice down your spine and abruptly, you find the strength to use your hold on him to push him away.

You part with pop and stare up at him panting. His eyes are half-lidded and dark, fixed on your lips, and it's not until you try to maintain the distance between you that he seems to notice something is wrong.

“We’re not doing this just because you’re all hormone crazy,” you sputter, trying to push him even further away. “I can’t! Please.”

“Oh, darling.” It’s unfair how liquid and low his voice is. He leans down to catch your eyes with his own. “It still takes two.”

“What?” You can’t take any chance that he might mean—

His smile is warm and encouraging as he says, “You can’t go into heat for someone you don’t want back.” When you just stare at him with surprise, faintly shaking your head, he ducks his head a little before his eyes meet yours again. “Is that so hard to believe? I’ve had a crush on you for ages now.”

Your eyes grow even wider as you try to make sense of his words. “You have?” There’s that shy hope you were trying to avoid, but it's so hard with him continuing to say all the right things, still holding you, still looking well kissed by you.

“For years,” he admits, a little sheepish. “I just didn’t say anything because, well, I lived here and you lived everywhere.” He pushes against your hold again and this time you let him close once more, his breath fanning across your face as you stare, entranced. He nuzzles against you, before pulling back the barest inch to continue, “I thought it was a dream, you saying you were going to stay here, that you wanted to live with me. I felt so guilty for how happy I was that your family finally crossed the line, but I am.”

He looks like he expects you to judge him for that but you’re just waiting to hear what other, wonderful, impossible thing he might say next. He presses his forehead against yours and murmurs, “Because you’re finally here, with me. In my nest, in my arms.”

“Oh,” you breathe, unable to find a single coherent thought to voice in response.

He pulls back again, just slightly, and goes on to say, “I was going to wait until you were more settled, see how you liked living here, living with me—when you were dealing with fewer changes--to see if you might consider…” he looks at you through ridiculously pretty lashes you’ve somehow never noticed until right this second, “consider being with me.”

“Yeah?” your voice is a little teary in the face of his sincerity, his consideration. Heshi. Heshi had a plan to ask you out. Heshi likes you. Heshi wants you. Your mind is spinning and you’re holding back tears and you’ve never felt so many overwhelming good feelings in your life.

He nods with a smile. “Yeah.”

“Yes,” you say, nodding rather vehemently. “I don’t need time and yeah, life is crazy now, but it always is. I want to be with you.” And this time, you pull him down and press your lips to his. The kiss starts sweet, but he lets out something like a whine against your lips in the split second you pull back to breathe. Heat radiates from him and you begin to feel feverish with it too, the desperate need to be closer, even closer.

Ever since you nudged him from hibernation, you’ve been trying so hard to hold yourself back, to accept his hugs and embraces, but not reach for him. Your arm hooks around his neck as you let yourself pull him to you. He capitulates easily, wrapping arms around you, his tongue along yours as the kiss grows hungrier. You feel something smooth and strong against your legs and moan when you realize his tail is spiraling around you.

At some point you have to breathe and he wastes no time in lunging for the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, his favorite spot to nuzzle, only this time… This time, you gasp out his name as his fangs lightly drag along the spot and he nips. The shiver his mouth inspires only grows when he sets about sucking a mark into your skin.

You groan as he skims his mouth and fangs back up your neck only to pant desperately in your ear, “Want you. So much.” You nod thoughtlessly in his hold.

“Now, please,” he demands, breathy with need.

“Yes.”

[Part Eight - NSFW]

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canonedhours · 4 months

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More of a general confession than an Ed-specific one: It feels like the whole fandom has lost its mind because they need easy answers for who is the true victim so they can project at will. It’s fine if they want to argue that Ed benefits from protagonist bias and that Izzy is treated like the devil when he’s mostly just an ineffectual funny villain (I have my own opinions about Word Of ASherm being that Izzy wasn’t written to be racist but that’s besides the point), but the way they act it’s as if they care less about the actions and framing of the characters in canon and just want the moral justification to fuck and/or overly identify with them. Everyone wants to be right so bad. Media can be fun, meaningful and healing but is railing against total strangers on the internet the best outlet for navigating your trauma? The danger of projecting onto fictional characters is that you put all your power and self-esteem in the hands of showrunners who have their own biases. You can’t be 100% certain of what direction they will take the character, especially not when you are involved in fandom and have your POV colored by public opinion. When your fave does something fucked up it’s taken as a personal attack. If you build your whole life around your history of abuse to the point you can’t handle a story not sticking to your internal script, you risk letting external forces write your story for you. It’s distressing to realize being a victim doesn’t mean you can’t still do harm, especially when coming to terms with your victimhood is hard enough. Being ND and having black/white or rejection sensitive thinking can complicate that even more. I don’t want to sound like I’m not empathetic to both Ed and Izzy stans. Not to sound like a centrist or anything, but I’ve seen both sides make really good points and I’ve seen both sides act horrific and hateful. We’re all traumatized! But part of being good at media analysis and not losing your mind in fandom is understanding what’s canon and intended by the showrunners, what has real life oppressive implications, and what are the stories we tell ourselves because they’re the most convenient or personally validating. It’s not easy and it’s not supposed to be. I just hope that at the end of the day, people care more about being ethical real life human beings to each other than going to war for/against fictional characters. I personally believe fiction affects reality, but there are levelheaded, compassionate ways to discuss that. If you wouldn’t talk to your boss like that, why would you talk to a stranger like that? I’ve never been a fandomy person because these spaces are basically guaranteed to get vitriolic, and the OFMD fandom has a particularly despised reputation, but it would be great if we all worked to prove them wrong. It will be hard work but I believe it’s not too late. I hope more people take that to heart.

#ofmd #our flag means death #edward teach #izzy hands #fandom critical #canonedhours

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uninspired--poet · 2 years

Text

Personal update regarding my fanfiction (opinionated, for sure. I’m not deleting anything <3.):

I wrote for the warcraft fandom every day from the end of 2018 to around six months ago. Over a million and a half words in that time. I wrote for WoW and, more specifically, Sylvaina, because I loved the characters and I believed I could write them a better story than they were getting.

The ‘finishing’ of Sylvanas’s story, along with the release of her novel, have resulted in things going incredibly south for me creatively. I wrote the stories because I loved the characters, as I’ve said. Especially Sylvanas.

I thought the issue was the high demand level of my job, but it wasn’t. It was just way easier to tell myself that than to admit what had actually happened.

This ship, especially, has been. Y’know. This isn’t the first time the character I identify most with has been turned into something she was never supposed to be. But that’s fine. When the ship trend became, not only noncon, but pushback against tagging it as such, I coped. (Y’know. As well as could be expected considering the reason Sylvanas is who I identify with is that she was the epitome of a survivor character and said trend turned her into the very thing I, personally, survived.)

I even coped when this ‘trend’ became the norm, somehow. When the character’s entire point was regaining her own agency and ensuring the agency of her fellow survivors. It’s fanfiction, right? What could it hurt, right?

I’m fully aware content policing is bad. But also, I have personal opinions and beliefs and it sure does suck that the ship I started writing for to cope with escaping a really bad situation became ‘the noncon ship’.

So, first, the ship’s fandom itself made her something she wasn’t intended to be. Easy enough to deal with. I simply won’t write her like that. I’ll write her the way I think she should be written, and the way that helps me process things. I’ll do everything in my power to always write healthy, consenting relationships. I’ll even withdraw socially from most aspects of fandom because I can’t fathom interacting with anyone who thinks this characterization is ‘hot’. Because in real life, it’s very much not.

And again, the pushback against requests that this particular trigger be tagged? Probably pretty telling regarding the direction things were heading. But I kept writing! I loved the characters. I loved the people who found my works as comforting to read as I found them to write. And because I still believed I could give these characters a better story than canon. Eventually, things evened out a bit on the content being produced for this ship and I felt a lot more comfortable being involved in it on a personal level.

Now we’ve arrived back at canon. The thing I felt so compelled to fix and do better when it just got harder and harder with each content patch. And the craziest thing happened. They stopped just short of canonically giving her the exact characterization I was just addressing. But they didn’t stop before she stopped being Sylvanas Windrunner, and they didn’t stop before the entire lore of the game was irreparably broken.

And I don’t know how to fix that. After so many words and stories and ‘it doesn’t matter, I can fix it.’, I can’t, anymore. And that’s super sad for me on a personal level. I’m not sorry for any opinions I’ve expressed regarding this ship now or in the past, but I’m sorry I can’t fix it. It just feels so much like there’s nothing left to fix. I’ve definitely tried. I’ve opened my docs so, so many times. I even wrote a whole one-shot in one sitting recently. And then I found out the writer currently responsible for Sylvanas’s direction is now writing for Overwatch, which has been one of my favorite things to do since I haven’t been able to write, and I was just like, okay. Writing for Blizzard franchises is becoming genuinely upsetting, and it’s really hurting my ability to write anything at all. I need to stop trying so hard to fit a square peg in a round hole before I ruin my ability to get this creative outlet back at some point.

Anyway, this isn’t some melodramatic ‘I’m leaving forever’ thing. I just wanted to express some things after so many years of so much involvement. There’ll be fics I discontinue, and fics I’ll update when I feel like I can enjoy updating them. Probably not many, though, and I wanted to be transparent about that because there are so many of you that I’ve come to care about and enjoy seeing in my comments and notes over the years.

Also, like what you like! Don’t let me stop you or make you angry about it. If I don’t even have the strength to keep trying so hard to write about these characters, I definitely don’t have it in me to argue about tag preferences, lol. I’m not some weird overarching characterization deity. I’m just a guy with ptsd and strong opinions.

But also, tag that shit if you want to write it. Don’t negotiate about it. It’s not a debate. If someone asks you to tag a theme, just believe them when they say it hurt them, or that it could hurt others. Behavior like that sets the mood and tempo for a lot of things, and you never know who has been through what in their real life.

Anyway, it’s really a perfect storm of things except the storm has been happening for years. I’ll still update some things. I still love the character Sylvanas was. And I’ll always appreciate the journies everyone took with me. They helped me more than you’ll ever know.

I’ll see you in the next silly or gratuitous elf one-shot. Sorry about the longfics. No promises on those, for sure. <3

-Poet

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altschmerzes · 11 months

Note

Ok so I love your work (started watching 911 so I could read more of your fics lol), and I completely agree and empathize with every one of your posts about how the show has handles Jamie’s arc. This may be a bit messy but! Here we go,,

My dad is also shitty, like Jamie’s, and my mom has done so so much to protect me from that, again, like Jamie’s. I don’t talk to my dad anymore and probably never will and I certainly haven’t forgiven him and probably never will. The past couple episode really did a wee number on me (read: had a lil break down, we’re totally good tho ahahaha 😬👍) and led my mom and i to have some difficult conversations about forgiveness and the role it does or doesn’t play in our healing and growth and what not. And to put it short, the space you cultivate here on tumblr was really really helpful for me, both in processing and identifying why the episodes hurt and also in being able to verbalize and communicate it with my loved ones. Being so vulnerable is hard and sucky and I know you’ve gotten shitty asks, and I’m really sorry for all that. So,, I just wanted to thank you for being so open and genuine on this lil website, and let u know it means a lot

(on a lighter note i am so excited for like ever ted fic u are working on—the kid fic, the same story, this new fix-it—just ahhhhhhhh can’t wait!)

ahhhhhh man i am so flattered you like my work so much (i'm excited for those fics too!! been making a lot of progress with all of them and the 3x11 fic just hit 12k so full speed ahead on THAT) and i appreciate so much you taking the time and willingness to write this out and send it to me

those last couple episodes were rough for that, and i didn't have an easy time with them either. i'm so sorry you had to see that messaging for what i'm sure is the millionth time in your life - it's a horrible thing to be told over and over. but i'm also so glad you were able to communicate with the people in your life about it and that i could play even a little part in helping that happen and giving you space where those feelings are validated and you aren't alone in them is just.... man <3 i'm really glad that my choice to be open about my feelings on that stuff and why has meant something to somebody. you're right, it's a scary and difficult thing to talk openly about some of the rougher stuff i've experienced, and i've had people say some shocking things to me because of it, but it's all completely worth it for this. thank YOU, seriously.

we're coming up very shortly on what's going to be the seventh anniversary of when i went no-contact with my father, which is something i needed to do for my own safety and peace of mind and heart, after an attempt at reconciliation that went badly for me. without personal and societal pressure from people i knew, broader culture, and a lot of media narratives, i never would've let him back into my life in the first place, because it sure wasn't what i wanted. and even now, the rest of my family - who have all decided to welcome him back into the fold despite some reprehensible shit that ruined my life - is on me regularly, trying to push me into reversing my decision and speaking to him again. i've been lectured about forgiveness a lot, and stuff like the stuff we just saw just. never helps. there is only ever one story about people like us, and it's always our abusers' happy ending. never a moment considering maybe ours might be different.

anyways. seriously. thank you for this. it means a lot to hear, more than i can say. i'm really proud of you for everything you've done to protect your peace and keep yourself safe and have a good, safe, happy life away from him. that shit is so, so hard, even without the world around us constantly trying to make it harder. so in case you don't hear it enough, because none of us ever do, i'm really, really proud of you.

#gav gab #gav answers #abuse cw #long post #ted lasso spoilers #man. man........

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the-bloody-sadist · 1 year

Note

Repressed anon from before! I was wondering, what specifically do you mean by the horror of love? The inherent vulnerability of it, the fact that someone has to die first, something else?

Dissecting complicated emotions and concepts is a passion of mine too, but I can’t do it through art very well yet so I have to do it with words haha

My family was pretty much polar opposite, but with a similar effect somehow. Instead of sterile, my family was nothing but dysfunction and mental illness incarnate. The only person to provide any semblance of normalcy was my super religious grandma lol.

Your art is like. Super aesthetically pleasing exposure therapy for me right now. Trying to get over my squeamishness one beautifully horrifying picture and fic at a time.

Also, as for the terror and regret that comes with opening up about yourself and your experiences— vulnerability is pure courage. Your art is deeply personal and anything that you choose to share about the creation and meaning of it is an honor to learn. Which sounds sappy as hell but it’s fuckin true!! It’s so easy to tear other people down, but it’s so hard to put yourself out there. Also, salient fact here: it’s your blog. If someone doesn’t like what you say on your own personal platform, then they can leave. This is your slice of the void to yell into. Let the zestyness flow through you 😈

And since we’re identifying ourselves using emojis,

- 🦡 anon

Yay, hello again, sweet! I'm loving the names for anons, really helps me keep conversations straight and organized! Welcome to the family, badger anon 🦡 !

And now, oh shit, you've asked me to explain the horror of love comment. It encompasses my life experiences, so it's very personal to me, and the reason why all my romance stories will probably be thrillers and psychological horror. So see I was like...trying to put the horror genre with the love category, and that's when I started using that phrase to describe my work.

Let me mention some factors of my childhood that give light to this phrase, since you shared about your family, too (and thank you for sharing!).

I grew up with a narcissist and an enabler for parents, parading around as the perfect couple. First horror of love: if you're in someone's care, you're also at their mercy.

Hopefully you see my trajectory with this beginning lol.

The love you grow up with is the one you learn to accept as the definition of love. You seek it out unconsciously for the rest of your miserable life. This isn't the case for everyone, of course, as some can break free of it, but it's been my own curse, thus far. I've only broken free for now because I'm staying away from anything deeper than casual dates.

I've talked about it in other asks before, but to me, love is terrifying. Not because of the vulnerability that comes with it or the chance that a partner might die before you, but because the only experiences I've had with that came from those whose true colors were mortifying. And all because parental love became my example. Love meant being ignored, being lonely, playing pretend. Love meant never having boundaries but respecting others' at all costs. Love meant doing everything in my power to please, or impress, or elicit positive emotions, only to learn that, in the end, nothing would ever be enough. No matter what I did or how I acted, there was always something to be fixed, and if my parents' stellar reputation wasn't polished to its finest, I was a sinner, somehow, and something had to be done.

So I basically grew up with zero personality, mirroring everyone else, to be frank. I had access to two whole emotions: fear and happiness. If me or any of my siblings felt anything else, it was "snap out of it" from the parents, no matter the circumstance. Pet dog died? That's okay, try to move on. Cry for one day and you're probably fine. God forbid you speculate that it's because your father abused it, even if it died because it got left too long on a yard chain. A chain it strangled itself in because it was wildly unsafe. Mother miscarried a child? Let's give the baby a funny name and make jokes about it hanging out in heaven on the same day we announce its death to the family.

And me, when I returned from the worst trauma of my life? Well, eventually I became part of the jokes, too, after telling them what I went through. My siblings even repeated a line my abuser said to me as the punchline, sometimes.

All this is to explain that I grew up numb. I was an artist, expressing myself was the biggest personality trait I had. But that passion was stepped on and boxed away, because I had to dress the way they said, draw the things they approved of. "Be yourself" was literally a phrase that they made fun of and said was bad, so I had no self that I knew of. I was them, or whoever I was supposed to become to make them stop hurting me. I was not capable of playing the same game that they did, however, in terms of religion and being affected by nothing. Eventually I imagined I'd lost the ability to feel at all, because I hid anything that did come out, and behind the scenes was in shock. Nothing affected me outwardly except the power of fear. I was never happy, but my family chronically and toxically was, so I had to mirror it to survive in that environment. Otherwise I became the joke, I was seen as moping, or I was told I was uncooperative.

This environment created a sort of trauma-bonded codependency on my siblings. We didn't realize it at the time, but we were cowering under a tyrant and his wife whom everyone told us were the greatest parents in the world. If they made us feel awful about ourselves or isolated us from interactions outside of their watchful eyes, it was just because that's how families worked, and the families who didn't were wrong. Sinful, even.

No public school, no sleepovers, no TV, no 'secular' media. No sex ed, no outside opinions, no movies with language, no looking at other peoples' phones. No books that weren't garbage christian authors who didn't know a thing about writing.

Everything was barbed wire, everything was rules.

So you can imagine how such a view of loving parents was only horror, and how that transferred right over into my first romantic partner. I ran away with that partner to escape that house, and lived in another house that was exactly the same, except without the play pretend, the bumper rails, or the emotional capacity needed to survive.

I won't go into that part, because a stupid story I wrote covers that bit just fine, lol. Sinner, my silly little fanfic about FyoZai. Sorry for the ad break, but that story is my life. If you'd like to learn about my feelings and certain complexities of how I see love, that's where it is in a better form than I could ever explain it, here.

I don't think you should've encouraged me to let the zestyness flow through. I unleashed the trauma dump, and I'm still holding back so much detail. 😂 I shouldn't be such an open book but hey, who reads Tumblr asks anyway except the asker? Maybe like ten out of the thousands that follow me. Although the rest just read Sinner, which is my professional trauma dump LMAO.

Anyway after all that, I had my villain arc and now I'm the one in charge. Mwahahah. I tried lots of stuff after that first relationship, made things worse, discovered new things, realized that I was a sadist, and that being a sadist didn't mean I had some demonic force to get rid of like my mother had thought when I told her as a kid.

A lot of people have "loved" me along the way. The way I felt about that love ranged from disgusted to afraid. For now, asexuality is the place where I'm safe, so that's where I stay, and I blue-ball anyone who asks for anything else. 😇 BDSM is a nice outlet for that bit, though, so I've had my fun with those who wanted me to do pain play on them, without the sexual aspect involved. I think it would be nice to have a dedicated partner someday who was an asexual masochist or something. LMAO.

IN CONCLUSION! Thanks for your beautiful descriptions of my artwork, and for praising my vulnerability on main! I hope I explained the little deal with the horror of love. I hope through my art and my fiction (if you get into that side of my work) will help you dissect all the things you feel, too.

Much love, my sweet! And sorry to anyone whose dashboard got bombarded with my little tragic drama tale.

(P.s. the TLDR for anyone who knows Sinner is that once upon a time I used to be Dazai and now I'm Fyodor [but the reformed Fyodor, without all the evil villain kidnapper rapist stuff LMAO])

#badger anon 🦡#trauma dump #sadist's answered asks #sadist's sweet askers #sinner reference #lol #I gotta do it every other post at this point #sinner lives inside of me

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