#[ all i know is that i debated how gay to make it and then totally lost track of myself ]
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I often wonder if I would feel differently about The Staircase Scene if I had seen SAF when it first came out in 2016. The first time I saw it was probably around October or November of 2023, and like... the context is different now.
Whatever we want to say about the personal story arcs of these characters (and I know I'm in a tiny minority because, for me, killing Owen does not constitute a satisfying close to Curt's arc, that's totally fine), there is the very real issue of the sociopolitical context that this scene takes place within- both in their time (1961) and in ours.
One very cool thing about SAF is that, in order to understand these characters better, a lot of younger queer folks end up learning about the Lavender Scare, about Executive Order 10450- which officially prohibited gay people from working for the US government- for the first time. That's an incredible, precious thing to me. Yay queer history! It's important!
The show itself never addresses the fact that both the US and UK governments had very public, very brutal campaigns equating homosexuality with communism with being a traitor to your country. But if you want to understand these characters, and especially write fanfiction, you're really incentivized to teach yourself some fundamentally important aspects of queer history.
In the 54 Below concert, before singing Not So Bad, Brian Rosenthal talks about how when they were developing the show they thought N@zis were more or less a thing of the past, that they're fully aware of how differently that song might be taken now after an escalation into a more open embrace of fascism in the US. And they're absolutely right about that.
But I think that's also perhaps an issue with the staircase scene, or at least it is for me. Obviously homophobia and transphobia were not "fixed" in 2016, they were still massive problems resulting in violence and discrimination and brutality. But institutionally, at least, you could look at the situation and point to some things that were gradually getting better.
In 2016 trans youth in my state were legally allowed to receive gender affirming care. In 2024, they are not. It's not that homophobia and transphobia went away and then came back, but there was a very real resurgence of the use of the media and of governmental power to inflict pain on queer & trans people and chase them out of public life- bathroom bans, gender affirming care bans, Don't Say Gay laws, trying to make drag illegal, equating queer and trans people with pedophilia. There has been a big cultural shift back towards the same kind of violent governmental moral panic that our beloved Curt & Owen would have lived under.
Whatever we want to say about these characters and this story (and there's tons of fascinating debate there), there is still the base of a gay man killing his ex-lover ostensibly to protect US foreign policy objectives. Killing the man he loves- or loved, at least- to protect the secret that he is gay. And that hits different for me now.
I watch that scene and it is heartbreaking on a personal level, but its also heartbreaking as a queer person who just wants to scream "your government will destroy you for being gay, you don't owe them shit!"
Owen tries to explain that the surveillance network is happening, that the future won't wait for Curt to catch up. Barb has been saying she's working on the same thing for the US government the entire show, but Curt just kept ignoring her. And I just want to say "Curt, honey, what do you think your government is going to do to you with that surveillance system? Do you think you're useful enough to keep around even though you have sex with men? Because I promise you they will not care."
It feels tragic to me because on some level it seems like Curt would actually be safer with another gay man having control of all the world's secrets than he will be if the government he has dedicated his life to gets their hands on that same technology.
And the thing is, having a tragic ending doesn't make the show bad. This show is great. This scene is spectacular. It makes you think, it makes you feel things, it does all the stuff that great art is supposed to do. Absolutely none of what I'm saying here is meant to denigrate the show as a musical or a story or even a queer story. I hope it doesn't come off as me saying "actually this show is bad," because I don't feel that way at all.
Clearly I live and breathe this show. That's why I spend all my time on here analyzing every scene, every frame, every facial expression. I love this show so much that I can't help but deconstruct it and look at all its component parts- including the sociopolitical context both now and in 1961. Because that context, despite never being explicitly mentioned, is important to our understanding of these characters.
I love these characters so much that it's actually pretty difficult for me to watch A2P7 anymore, because the staircase scene is so emotionally devastating to me that it's hard to try to swing back into that more comedic tone (even though Spy Dance is a certified bop).
I'm not even sure what my point is with all of this, other than to say that Spies Are Forever is a show that is great and fun and funny as written/performed, and becomes gradually more emotionally devastating when you rewatch it or when you understand the subtext of it. When you can engage with the themes of gender and sexuality, surveillance and technology, trauma and trust, and tease out even more satisfying theories around this show.
So yeah. It's a musical. It's about spies.
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Some people need to understand queer coding opens character identities and relationships up to a solid queer interpretation, but that doesn’t equal “this character 100% fits my headcanon and if you disagree you’re a [REDACTED]”
From a literary analysis perspective, as long as your interpretation is reasonably evidence-based it’s valid. As this is fandom, I’d add “sincere” to that since unlike an academic setting we get bad faith actors but that’s it.
So, to have a valid “interpretation” you have to do the work in good faith, and you have to be able point at the text to support your interpretation. If you can’t, or don’t want to, that’s a headcanon, and it’s totally fine.
“But this character is a lesbian she likes a girl!” There’s more to queerness than straight and gay. You could reasonably interpret a girl who likes another girl as plenty of different things:
Lesbian
Bi
Ace/aro and something else
Straight and closeted trans
Straight and lover is closeted trans
And so on.
So when you have an interpretation, someone might tell you, “I think this other thing.” The polite way to handle this if you don’t like it is to say “that’s so cool we can see different things in the ambiguity of art”. Maybe blocking each other if you dislike their interpretation that much.
That’s of course unless you both want a debate to further refine your understanding of the text or just like to argue or whatever. Which is fine! As long as it’s not overly bitter or whatever, it’s fun to discuss.
“So how do I know which interpretation is more canon than another?”
See, that’s the thing, you can’t. Canon is kind of shaky in the first place. The canon is just what’s written that’s recognized as true/correct text, not the way to understand it (and not what the author says is true, some people take Word of God as canon because it allows the following of one concrete interpretation instead of acknowledging multiple, but strictly speaking it is not). You can only interpret the canon.
For example, 4-komas bonuses of serialized manga are usually non-canon because they are jokes and not meant to be taken seriously as a part of the story’s text. That’s what canon actually is for, originally it’s to talk about which books are genuinely part of the Bible and which are to be deemed offshoots that shouldn’t be taken as a Catholic Church-endorsed religious text.
I guess that’s what gets people confused? That there’s no actual truth to imagined worlds, only what happens in the eyes of the beholder when they interact with art?
Because that’s what it means, canon often has nothing to do with who’s “actually a lesbian” short of them saying it directly. An onscreen wedding is said to “make a couple canon” precisely because there’s only so many ways you can interpret a wedding, but all that means is that the text says they’re together at a point in time. One way I can think of having a canon sexuality would be a canonical character sheet, or an omniscient narrator saying so, but everything less is basically an interpretation.
Note that interpretation obviousness can go from “that’s a stretch but I like it”, to “you only need eyes to see it”, they’re both still interpreting. Even a character talking sexuality technically only makes canon that they’re willing to say so, but that’s when critical thinking comes in.
If you hear a character say “I’m a married lesbian” and think “they’re just confused” with no evidence, you look like an idiot. You absolutely can argue which interpretation is more valid or likely by pointing out inconsistencies, stretched evidence, or that one interpretation has a higher volume of evidence/etc. This is how you avoid relativism and “nothing the text says matters” trolls.
Occam’s Razor is another way you might be tempted to try and determine whose thesis is stronger. This technique works through figuring out which interpretation requires the least amount of assumptions (saying something arbitrary is true as a basis) but it doesn’t make anything canon, or more interesting, it’s not a concrete sign of superiority. Just means it has stronger fondations.
However… your interpretation being stronger, more popular, better worded etc. or you thinking someone else’s is immoral, stupid, etc. doesn’t give you license to be a bully, to call people names, to dox them, dig up dirt to make them look worse, and so on and so forth. Thinking you’re right and they’re wrong does not make you above basic respect, politeness, or consequences. You’re not better than everyone else.
As a child, I used to think I was always right because I was logical, and I clearly made logical sense so there was no way for there to be a logical reasoning that arrived at a different conclusion. (Newsflash: Child me was very wrong! Sometimes multiple things can be equally valid! And even if they were not equal, that didn’t give me license to deride people publicly!)
Queer coding is by its nature interpretative. Coding is the author leaving hints about their characters by using a “code”. Some hints, almost everyone in your section of fandom might have the exact same interpretation about. Some hints might be dead obvious. Some hints might leave you overjoyed. Some hints you might ignore because they make you uncomfortable.
Some people will disagree with you about how they interpret the coding, or might even just state that they believe people have a right to interpret the canon however they want, even in ways you don’t like. That is normal. That is not a threat to your interpretation.
Don’t be a petty cunt about it.
Essentially,
#literary analysis#honkai impact#hi3#phoebe rambles#the amount of people who decry the mere possibility of sushang not being a lesbian when she had a crush on a dude once#when they also ADAMANTLY refuse to acknowledge how queer coded the Seele’s are with one another#stop putting your moral agenda in my literary analysis what are you. 12
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I've been thinking about mules, and how fucked up the Discourse™ would be if humans and some other sapient hominid were in the same situation as horses and donkeys. The chromosomal mismatch (horses have 64, donkeys 62, mules 63) renders their offspring infertile and bring out some "primitive" traits not commonly expressed by their parents-- imagine what might happen in the development of a sapient creature.
Can you imagine how fucked up the fight for equality in marriage, sex rights, etc. would be? Would it be justifiable to have a child with your partner, knowing said child will suffer the consequences for your actions? Full scale eugenics is probably off the table for ethical reasons, but would it not also be unethical to bring into the word a child guaranteed to be infertile, developmentally delayed, or unable to live longer than their parents? The fight for LGBTQ+ rights has been ridiculously difficult, and there's literally no downsides. The debate over the rights for Human-46s and Human-48s to get it on would be terrifying.
It only matters in cases where pregnancy is a concern, but we all know how fucked everything about normal birth control is. How bad would your offspring need to have it for mandatory sterilization to be on the table? The dating scene for straight people would be so fucking dystopian. Sure, you like this guy, but do you like him enough to get a hysterectomy? Are you sure he's the one? That you won't fall apart in three years? That you won't find yourself with someone of the same species, craving children of your own, but unable because of a decision you made as drunk college kid? It matters less if you're gay/straight but one of you is trans/otherwise unable to produce a child via raw-dogging, but I trying to envisage the discourse around "The government forced me to tie my tubes even though my partner tops" makes me feel ill.
Growing up as a Human-47 would also have to suck -- knowing your parents cared more about a five second orgasm than the fifty years you get to spend knowing you're inferior to both of them. "Was it really worth it, Mom?" you ask. "Did he make you cum well enough to offset my fifth-grade reading level?"
The flip side is also bad: what if Human-47s were better than their parents, but still infertile. Are you so committed to the survival of your species that you're willing to forgo that hybrid vigor? Is it more important to you that your child produce sperm/eggs than be capable of true, total self-actualization? Do you you love your spouse enough to (relatively) stunt your children? On the flip side, is your child's success more important than letting them raise a family? Growing up Human-46/48, especially if you don't even want kinds, can you forgive your parents for their choice? Can a wanting Human-47 mother or father forgive their parents?
Not trying to draw explicit parallels with real-world issues here, and I think most of these questions aren't too hard to find good solutions to-- but I've been turning this idea over in my head like a rotisserie chicken for months and I think it might kill me if I don't get it out.
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op could you elaborate on the she/her muriel thing. because i totally get what you mean but i find it so hard to articulate why... its just like. mmmmm. canon they/them character. but you wont respect their prns. but then again i enjoy when people get genderwierd w the ineffable spouses. would you respect my prns if you cant even respect a fictional character. is that the same thing. idk.
hi anon! i'll try best to elaborate, but apologies in advance if it comes off a bit... intense?
to give some context to my words:
i am nonbinary
i am afab
my pronouns are they/them
most everyone with the exception of close friends and people on the internet misgender me with she/her pronouns because they perceive me as a woman.
i think the root of it for me is that muriel has no experience interacting with earth, let alone humans, before they're sent down to be Inspector Constable. and because they have no experience with humans, they most definitely have very little context for the human construct that is gender. muriel's pronouns are they/them because those are the default gender neutral pronouns in english. muriel (like the other angels and demons) is referred to with they/them pronouns because, for all intents and purposes, they don't have gender.
whereas aziraphale and crowley (and even gabriel to a certain extent) have interfaced with humanity enough to have developed some level of understanding regarding gender, and possibly even an understanding of what they want their gender to be/be perceived as.
additionally, crowley and aziraphale play with gender in a way that feels very intentional to me.
crowley has canonically, in the show, presented femme. meta writers far more skilled than me have examined how, during the crucifixion scene, crowley is very obviously dressed more like the women in the background than the men. and it's not just in the historical flashbacks that we see crowley's genderfuckery. his modern look is comprised of a combination of femme and masc pieces. he wears a woman's cut waistcoat and his "11 years ago" look features women's sunglasses. all while inhabiting a decidedly man-shaped body.
i'm also just going to remind the audience that crowley outright denies being "a lad" in season 2. he straight up told us he's not A Dude.
aziraphale's genderfuckery is definitely less obvious and some might say debatable. that being said, i would make the argument that aziraphale's tendency to dress and present in a way that results in him being almost universally perceived as not only A Gay Man, but an effeminate gay man at that, is a quintessential example of gender as performance. and i do believe that aziraphale is making a very conscious and deliberate choice to present as a gay man. for fuck's sake he calls himself THE Southern Pansy, he knows what he's doing.
also, i know it didn't actually happen, but we almost got both of them presenting femme in the 60s so like. there's that too.
so, to me, it's ok to fuck around with crowley and aziraphale's genders in fanfic and art and the like because they do so canonically. the book makes it very clear that they are "man-shaped" but not necessarily men, ie they have chosen bodies that are perceived as being A Gender but that doesn't mean they technically are.
whereas muriel does not. muriel doesn't have a concept of gender because they haven't been on earth or around humans long enough to develop one. they are only ever referred to with gender neutral language. so it just feels really gross to me when people choose to she/her them. because to me it feels like saying "well this body that appears woman-shaped to me must mean they are a woman" which is a sentiment i, unfortunately, know all too well.
muriel is a character that is canonically referred to with they/them pronouns, on a major TV show on a major streaming platform no less. so it really fucking sucks to see people disregard that because they "can't remember to they/them muriel" or because they "seem like they use she/her."
to put it bluntly, every single argument i've ever read in favor of she/her-ing muriel has boiled down to "i just can't be bothered to remember they use they/them" and if you can't use a fictional characters pronouns correctly then i have zero faith you can use a real person's pronouns correctly. all i hear when i read those arguments is "i can't be fucked to do the bare minimum of gendering trans people correctly."
and lastly, i know it's genderfuckery when people she/her aziraphale and crowley because they're "man shaped" in the book and played by male actors in the show. but i don't have much faith that it's genderfuckery when people she/her muriel because i can almost guarentee it happens for no other reason than the fact that Quelin Sepulveda is a woman.
#wow that got long really fast#i hope this provided some amount of insight and wasn't too confusing#asks#my asks#answered asks#good omens#muriel#muriel good omens#kind of good omens meta
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I must say I'm kinda baffled by the way some people are reacting towards Tommy and Buck's scene. Like we may have bi Buck on the horizon so I think we all should be happy about it, I know we are all protective of our ship but this is a good thing because there has to be a catalyst, something that will make a change in Eddie and Buck relationship and this is it. Buck's bi realization is a must if buddie it's going to happen because if buddie does end being together it can't be sudden, it has to be built on. So I'm having a blast with Tommy's character 🤷 he's a funny guy.
Also I may know nothing about cinematography but that little scene there with Tommy, Buck and Eddie seemed important for a reason.
Btw I was wondering about this interview https://youtu.be/vlCRTTAfeYs?si=oiVXhkBu7WQ9hV_1
Because sometimes I still struggle with the real meaning behind some sentences or words in English, when Oliver said:
"You can’t have the audience interpretation in mind too much when you make the show. You have to make it and put it out in the world and people can take what they want."
Can this be interpreted as they wouldn't care if some viewers may have an homophobic reaction towards Eddie and Buck getting together or I'm reading things differently?
I understand people being sensitive to "another barrier" towards buddie but like...yeah, it's getting a little out of hand. It's fine to feel your feelings, but keep them in your group chat's or to your like-minded friends. Please don't make them other people's problems.
I am also having a blast with Tommy! I wasn't sure how they were going to take his character with the reintroduction given how he wasn't the most well-liked character in the Begins episodes. Again, if POC fans never want to forgive him or like him, that's totally fine. I won't ever get on people's cases for disliking him for his past actions. But I do think he'll prove to be interesting if he plays a role for Buck (and Buddie by extension).
I'll give you my personal interpretation (which could be up for debate) of what Oliver said in that interview. To me, he's saying, that he can't always be policing himself when he's acting by wondering "is the audience going to think I'm making this scene too gay?", "will they get mad at me and accuse me of queerbaiting if I act in certain ways with Ryan/Eddie in this scene?", etc. I think that Oliver is very aware of how he and his actions are perceived by the fandom. He's always been the one who has dealt with the brunt of people screaming "BUDDIE!" and "QUEERBAITER!" in his face. If the long-running theory that FOX was purposely not letting Buddie happen is true, then Oliver was probably very aware that anything he did or said would give fans false hope and would lead to disappointment and people disliking him. He seems like a really good guy who doesn't want to really hurt people's feelings that way. But at the end of the day, it hinders an actor's ability to give a character or a scene their all if they're constantly overthinking how it will be perceived by the audience.
So, I think Oliver is saying that he's no longer overthinking his actions when it comes to the way he acts as Buck. If people want to perceive a scene/action as gay, then okay. If they don't, okay. If they hate it, okay. If they love it, fantastic. And the same for any solo Buck scenes or non-buddie scenes too. I'm glad he's trying not to let how other people perceive his acting choices get to him anymore.
I hope I explained myself clearly! And again, that's just MY interpretation of what he said. I'm sure there are plenty of other valid interpretations too.
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thinking of writing a (kinda sorta) the summer i turned pretty wilmon au
simon and sara and linda are close family friends with wille and erik and kristina and ludvig, and have spent every summer for as long as simon can remember at their beach house, in some cute quaint little town by the ocean. kristina and ludvig are like second parents to simon and erik is like the big brother simon never had. but wille...wille is a year old than simon, and they've been thick as thieves since they were small. simon's had a crush on wille since absolutely forever, and there's been hints over the years that wille likes him, too (he gave simon his cross necklace, once, and it was oddly sweet). except, up until now it's all been childlike and innocent and nothing but a regular friendship between them. but this summer-
this summer, simon has just turned 17, and he's out to all his family and friends, and rosh and ayub (his friends from home) keep telling simon how good he looks, and simon starts to think that maybe this is the summer he and wille will finally admit their feelings for each other and actually do something about it.
simon's ready, ready to fall in love and have the best summer of his life, but when they arrive at kristina and ludvig's beach house, wille is different- he's sullen and withdrawn and so moody, not goofy and fun like simon remembers from years past, and simon is totally heartbroken: he feels like wille barely wants to be his friend anymore, much less anything else, and he doesn't understand why
(it turns out erik is sick and he and kristina and ludvig are hiding the news from everyone else, including wille, so they can have one last perfect summer, but wille found out anyways and doesn't know how to deal with the idea of potentially losing his brother and also that his whole family is keeping something so huge from him)
meanwhile, kristina is trying to convince simon to take part in the beautillion ball, the male equivalent of the debs ("it's very progressive now," kristina tells him. "they don't care if you're straight or gay or whatever kids are calling it these days") and she's offers to pay for the whole thing. simon thinks it's a totally antiquated tradition and it will just be him and a bunch of rich kids, so he isn't interested, but erik convinces him- he did it when he was younger and it wasn't that bad (plus erik secretly wants wille to offer to escort simon to the ball because he knows it will make wille happy, and erik wants to see his brother fall in love, because he might not be around for another summer) so simon agrees to it
except- simon has no idea how to even talk to wille anymore, so he hesitates to ask wille to the ball, and wille is also scared to bring up the idea of being simon's escort (he and simon are best friends, or at least, they were, and if wille might lose erik, he can't share his true feelings for simon and risk losing him, too)
so, simon grows more and more distant from wille. he ends up going on a bunch of dates with another boy who is in town for the summer named marcus, who simon guesses is nice enough and can relate to everything simon has been going through with micke (he and linda divorced last summer), and simon thinks about asking marcus to escort him to the ball, but he can't stop thinking about wille and doesn't think it's fair to marcus to ask, and he debates breaking the whole thing off
meanwhile, wille is...not doing great. he's stressed and overwhelmed about erik being sick, and he's sad that simon might be falling in love with someone else, and he wants to take simon to the ball and show him off in front of everyone, but- he can't. so he starts drinking and smoking more and taking pills that august deals him during the late-night beach bonfires, and he isn't himself at all, until he finally blows up one night. he tries to fight marcus or do something really dumb that forces simon to call erik and beg for help and it all comes out that wille knows erik is sick and dying and why wouldn't he tell wille
and now simon understands why wille's been acting that way he has, but wille is still having trouble opening up, until he starts giving sailing lessons to boris, this old man who has lived in the town forever, and boris gives him sage life advice and wille realizes he needs to tell simon how he really feels, like, now, or he might actually lose him forever
wille has this realization the same night as the ball, and he tells boris he has to go and hurries back to his parents beach house- but simon is no where to be found. it turns out simon has already gone to the ball early to prepare, and is planning to be one of the only boys that's participating without an escort
wille tries to get to the ball but it's across the town and he's held up (by a bad storm?? and his car gets stuck in the mud or something equally inconvenient and ridiculous) and when he bursts in, simon is just about to be announced, and wille is sopping wet and breaking every antiquated rule of decorum of the ball as he marches across the ballroom, dripping water, and says that he's simon's escort and he'll be giving him away (or however the heck these balls work i have no idea)
and he and wille dance and laugh the night away, and after they sneak off to the beach and really talk, for what seems like the first time that summer, and finally, they kiss each other for the first time, and it's way better than simon ever imagined over all these years
(and it turns out that erik's been accepted into a trial for an experimental cancer treatment that's had successful results, and his blood results are looking okay, and there's a chance he might be fine after all, what a relief. and maybe linda has also found love this summer, too, and sara is reveling in her first real friendship with felice)
so simon and wille spend the last few weeks of the summer together in that little beach town, and with sara and their parents and erik and they soak it all in
also there is lots of drive-in movies and beach bonfires and fireworks and rich kid parties and maybe a charity sailing tournament where simon totally doesn't stare at willes arms the whole time, and late night swimming and skinny dipping and whatever other summer stereotypes i can possibly think of
#young royals#young royals fanfiction#anyways i've never actually read the summer i turned pretty books#i've just watched the tv show#so it would be more like a childhood friends to lovers beach house au or something like that#idk if i actually have the energy to write the whole thing#and it would probably get out of hand and be way too long#but i like this idea and i want to work on it so maybe i'll try#also this post is over 1k words already LOL#whoops
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PT. 2 of sally face as random quotes from my school's quote book bc yall liked the last one!
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Mrs. Packerton: "Yall used to get eaten a lot"
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Ashley: "...how tall are you?"
Sal: "5'2"
Ashley: "no, Larry"
Larry, high as girraffe balls: "uhh... 4'5.5"
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Todd, baffledly yelling: "FLO-IDA???"
Larry: "WELL I DIDN'T KNOW THERE WAS AN R IN THERE!"
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Mrs. Packerton: "size doesn't matter. Why are yall laughing? What!? Size doesn't matter!"
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Gizmo: "my fursona is a racoon."
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Todd, talking to Larry during a robotics project: "we're gay, you're stupid, this is not a winning team to make it go straight!"
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Sal: "you know that long underwear that looks like pants?"
Larry: "no."
Ash: "absolutely not."
Todd: "the fucking what?"
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Sal: "because those are the only strowls- only strowls. 🤦. *in a british accent* oNlY sTrOwLs I hAvE mAtE"
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Neil, helping someone do math homework: "so the 5th property is ASS, which is not a good thing in geometry... or to say in school!"
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(You get 0 context for this one)
Ash: "where are the rest of my ducks?"
Sal: "idk but a bee was after my shit so I ran"
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Larry, once again high as the Burj Khalifa : *points at robot* "this looks a lot similar to a robot"
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Travis: "I punched my computer with my hand"
Sal: "with your hand?"
Travis: "yeah it was with my hand"
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Todd, talking to himself: "AT&T is one, no wait thats a bank... no wait BBT is the bank!"
Neil: "...are you debating yourself on internet providers?"
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Larry: "I'll write a song called shady and sus"
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Todd: "we treat all triangles equally in this room! They may not all be right, but we love them"
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Chug, reading Sal's medicine bottle: "depression lizard?"
Sal: "bitch- DEPERSONILIZATION???"
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(This one breaks the 4th wall a little)
Sal & the gang, scrolling through fanart of themselves: "...that went from depressing to slutty really quickly"
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Lisa, talking about Larry: "he said he had a gyatt skibidi toilet... I don't know what that means"
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Travis: "oh yeah 'cause adam and eve were totally saying frick in the biblical days."
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Ash: "lets sing kumbaya, Travis is gay for Sal and Sal is gay for Travis"
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Larry, trying to be nice to Travis during a movie: "Shut the fuck up and enjoy it"
Travis: "I am enjoying it!"
Larry: Ok so do the first part and shut the fuck up!"
#sally face incorrect quotes#sally face#larry johnson#ashley campbell#travis phelps#chug cohen#sal fisher#sallyfacevideogame
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All of the Feelings {Charlie Walker x FTM!Reader NSFW Oneshot}
Requested by: Anonymous
Wordcount: 5064
Summary: You've always had a crush on the long haired nerd. When you get invited to a party at Kirby's, you have the chance to get more than a little close.
Warnings: Some bullying, Transphobia, kissing, handjob, I think that's it?
Charlie had been one of the few people who never seemed to judge you for the transition that you started to make during your younger teen years. Woodsboro was a small town, so everyone seemed to know everyone. Most of the people that you went to school with now, you had gone to school with when you were Mommy’s little princess, being forced to wear the pretty dresses to school and to wear your hair long, no matter how uncomfortable it had made you. You got a lot of flak from your classmates. They didn’t understand, or they just thought it was a waste, or they thought it was disgusting. You learned how to tell just from the way that their eyes flickered at you. But Charlie’s? Never once did he seem to give you anything other than a curious look.
When you were grouped together for class assignments, he never tried to complain to the teacher about needing another partner. He didn’t just dump all the work on you so that he didn’t have to spend any time with you. And to you, someone who felt lost and confused in their own skin until you started to take the testosterone and started growing into features that you had always wanted - appreciated that more than you could ever know. Not friends, exactly, even though you had joined his Film Club. But something a little kinder than just acquaintances.
Developing a crush on the long-haired, shy boy was easier than expected. As you transitioned from a straight female into a gay male, your feelings and hormones were all over the place but the way that your heart started beating faster and how your words seemed to come out so awkwardly when you were around him, that never once changed. But unfortunately, one other thing that never changed was the fact that his blue eyes were almost always focused on Kirby Reed.
Of course, he was a straight guy, so he was never going to look at you that way. But you could dream, couldn’t you? You can imagine that he was looking at you while talking about movies during the Film Club. Or that you were sitting beside him on a couch during the club nights at Kirby’s house, holding hands underneath the blanket. Or that you and he were sharing the same hot and heavy scenes that couples do in the movies before they usually get slaughtered by some slasher. You could dream and imagine. But it didn’t come without a little bit of hurt when you were snapped back to reality.
And reality was crashing down hard today. The Film Club was having a party, not just a movie watching night. It was Kirby and Jill’s idea, and they were the ones that had put it together at Kirby’s large, and usually empty, house. You really debated going or not, standing in front of your mirror and trying on different outfits. This was totally different from the usual thing. Movie nights, you were all sitting in the dark, in different places on the couch or on the floor, usually wrapped in blankets. There wasn’t much talking until after the movies were done and that’s when you’d just see yourself out, no one really stopping you. But a party? With drinking and talking and dancing and who knows what else.
“Aren’t you supposed to be discouraging me from parties?” You asked your mom, who was helping you to put together your outfit. Despite taking a little time to come around to your transition, she has become your biggest supporter. She was unrolling the collar from your shirt where it had gone into the neckline. “Teenage drinking, bad? Drugs bad? All of that sleazy sexy stuff, bad?”
“You need a healthy dose of rebellion,” Your mother said, looking you over and then shook her head, going back to your closet. “Just don’t get alcohol poisoning, and don’t try anything harder than weed.”
“Mom!” You groaned, taking off the shirt that you had just put on.
“And remember, I put those condoms in your wallet. Don’t nag at me about not needing them either. I didn’t think that I needed one and look at what happened,” She hummed, and looked over her shoulder at you while tugging out one of your favorite shirts. “What about this one?”
“Anything to get me out of here,” you said, snatching it from her and put it over your head. With your binder on to press in what little you had on your chest, it sat rather well, looking flat against your body. That and a comfortable pair of pants, and you guessed that you were ready to party. “Should I ... really go? What if they don’t want me there?”
“They invited you, didn’t they?”
“Maybe they meant everyone in the film club except for me. It’s not like I’m friends with them or anything, exactly.”
“Isn’t this a good place to start?” Your mother said softly. “You can even borrow the car if you promise me that you won’t drink. That way you can leave when you like.”
You sighed and let her give you the keys. She really was your number one supporter - and sometimes, MAYBE, on OCCASION, she made good points. Maybe you’ll finally be able to talk to Charlie tonight. It seemed unlikely given your promise not to drink but - it was possible.
--
Music could be heard as soon as you got out of the car. You parked on the street since the long driveway was filled up to the brim. You put your hands in your pockets as you started to walk up towards the brightly lit house, pausing near the front door. What was party etiquette? You had never been here without knocking before. The music was so loud, there was no way that it would be heard if you did it now.
Tentatively, you opened the door, and the music grew louder. There were a couple of people milling around the living room but most of the noise, and the action, seemed to be coming from the kitchen. You nodded towards the people that you knew and followed the sounds of the cheering.
“CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG!”
It was louder than the beat coming from the speakers, like a song of its own. A chant. A ritualistic calling out.
It was Robbie that was doing the chugging. For some odd reason, this group had poured a bunch of beers into a juice pitcher, and he was drinking it right from the spout. The froth was all over his upper lip, coating the end of the nose, but he kept on going. Your own nose curled at how that must have smelt. Beer always gave you this feeling of going to sneeze.
“Oh hey!” Kirby said, coming up beside you. From the smell of her, she had just been chugging too. “Did you - drive here?” She paused to hiccup.
“Uhh - yeah,” you said with an uncertain nod.
“Nooo,” She pouted. “I wanted you to chug too. Do you want to stay over? You can totally sleep over here, then we can really party tonight.”
Now that was an invitation that you certainly had not been expecting. “Umm - my mom needs the car in the morning, I’d better not,” You lied quickly.
“Come on Kirby, stop trying to pressure him,” Olivia said, saving your butt in that moment. And the way that she had just casually called you him ... it brought on a sort of fluttering feeling in your stomach. Maybe coming here wasn’t such a bad idea after all. “Besides, that means more booze for us!”
“True!” Kirby said, lighting back up. “There are some sodas in the fridge if you get thirsty, I guess. Help yourself?”
“Thanks Kirby,” you said with a light smile. You were going to do that, making your way to the large fridge and opening it up. The contents of it proved how rich Kirby’s family was. There was so much produce in there, good stuff from the farmers markets too, all packed up in neat containers. Not like the thin plastic bags from the grocery store that your own family used. Another wave of jealousy towards the blonde girl came over you and you took a can of your favorite soda down from the shelf.
“Hey, can I get one?”
The voice made you jump. You had just been closing the door to the fridge when it seemed like Charlie had popped up out of nowhere, right behind it. He chuckled a little at scaring you, running his hands through his extremely soft-looking, fluffy long hair. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, sheepishly.
“It’s okay,” you said slowly, and grabbed another can before letting the door close completely. “Here.”
“Thanks y/n,” he said, holding up the soda like he was giving a cheer, and then walked off to cheer on Robbie. You watched him go, that butterfly feeling from earlier increasing inside of your stomach. You quickly took a drink to try to drown those butterflies so you could act like ... well, a normal person. A normal guy at a party.
Robbie finished chugging, and looked like he was going to blow chunks at any second. You winced as he opened up his mouth, expecting him to gag, but he let out a huge belch instead and patted his stomach. It was nearly as disgusting as you thought it was going to be. But everyone was cheering him on, like not barfing was something to be totally proud of.
“Let’s play some games,” Kirby said with excitement, starting to pull people into the living room. You followed along, holding onto your can of soda, curious to see what kind of games she would be pulling out. “Everyone sit in a circle! Come on, everyone!”
It seemed a little juvenile but ... you just wanted to be part of the group, so you sat down next to Olivia, who gave you a friendly smile. You returned it back, and watched as Kirby put a beer bottle down in the middle of the circle, making people groan,
“Spin the bottle? We’re not in junior high,” Jill said, nudging the pretty blonde.
“That’s why it’s a mix of Spin the Bottle and Seven Minutes in Heaven,” Kirby said with a big grin. “Come on, I’ve wanted to play this since we cleaned out that closet over there,” She motioned to what you had just assumed to be a broom closet. Oh god. Spin the Bottle was one thing but Seven Minutes in Heaven? Being stuck in a closet with someone. You made the moves to start getting up, already thinking about excuses but someone beat you to it.
Trevor Sheldon. He never really liked you. And he had always made it perfectly clear. While most people at least tried to go along with your pronouns, or simply just forgot, he made sure to use ‘she/her’ while looking right into your eyes, making sure that it would hurt. He’d tell you that your ‘jugs were too good’ to be wasted on becoming a guy. Once, while drunk, he even offered to ‘treat you like a woman so good, you’ll forget all this boy nonsense’. Out of everyone here, he was the one that you disliked the most, but it was an avoidant sort of hate. Not a ‘mess with him’ sort of hate.
“Oh, if that thing is playing, I’m out,” Trevor said, pointing directly at you, making your cheeks start to feel warm from the shame of being called out like this.
“Oh, shut up Trevor,” Jill said to her ex-boyfriend.
“Yeah, are you scared you’d like it if he was in the closet with you?” Jenny Randall said. There was drama between that boy and those two girls, so you’ve heard, so you figured that they weren’t actually sticking up for you. They just wanted to kick him down.
“It’s okay, I can go,” you said, not wanting to cause a scene.
“No, come on y/n, stay,” Kirby said, reaching out for you with grabby arms. “I want you to play with us. You never come out to these things. Trevor can fuck off; we don’t care about him.”
Trevor scoffed, looking offended as the girls ganged up on him. You hesitantly sat back down with a little smile, mouthing a thank you to Kirby. She just gave you the biggest and brightest smile. She was really hard to dislike, but so easy to feel jealous of. She just had it all. She was perfect. You could completely understand why someone like her would keep Charlie’s head turned.
“Fuck you guys,” Trevor said, shooting the middle finger. “I wouldn’t want to end up with any of you in the closet anyway.”
“Thank god for that,” Jill retorted back. “Now that he’s gone, I’m going first.”
She spun the bottle in the middle of the circle. To your relief, it didn’t land on yourself - nor did it land on Charlie. It landed on Robbie who turned beet red - which wasn’t that far off from the color that the alcohol had turned him, and they disappeared inside of the closet.
“What are we supposed to do while they’re in there?” Olivia asked.
“Now, we play truth or dare,” Kirby said, setting up a timer on her phone so she’ll know when to get them out of the closet.
Truth or Dare was just as juvenile as it sounded. You picked truth, since you didn’t know what kind of dares they would come up with. The ‘truths’ were bad enough.
“Are you a virgin?” - Yes.
“What’s something you never told anyone?” “I actually like the sandwiches they serve in the cafeteria.”
“Are you ticklish?” “Only when caught off-guard.
Jill and Robbie finally get to come out of the closet after that. Robbie is still blushing, looking super bashful while Jill is trying to hold back a smile of some sorts. Something happened in that closet - but you felt you were probably better off not knowing.
“I’ll go,” Charlie volunteered, a little eagerly. Almost everyone in the circle cheered. You just smiled a little uneasily, your heart starting to beat fast in your chest. It was just as likely to land on Kirby, his dream girl, as it was to land on you. Could also land on someone pretty, like Olivia. Or even Jenny. The perfect, pretty blondes. You balanced your elbow on your knee and leaned your head against your palm, trying to look unbothered. Trying to look bored.
Until it lands on you.
Everyone was looking at you strangely now, as if you had been the one who chose for it to land on you. Probably figuring out how something like this would work.
“You can spin again if you want, Charlie,” Jill said, which made your heart fall right down into your stomach. The fact that she even suggested that out loud.
“No, it’s alright,” Charlie shrugged, and held out his hand to you. “C’mon, let’s play this stupid game.”
To tell the truth, the way that he said that didn’t make you feel much better. But you took the opportunity to grab onto his hand and get yourself up off of the ground.
And he didn’t let go once you were up. That was the most noticeable thing. He was still holding your hand while you walked a couple of feet towards the closet.
“Starting the timer!” Kirby said, grinning as Charlie closed the doors, leaving the both of you in darkness. It was still rather cramped, despite the fact that it was cleaned out. You could feel his presence in front of you, and you were still holding his hand. You just became hyperaware of everything that was around you, from the warmth of his body to the single coat that was hanging on the rack, a fake fur monstrosity.
“Sorry you got stuck with me,” you said, rubbing the back of your neck. You certainly didn’t want to be the first one to let go of his hand. You didn’t want to make him realize that he was still holding yours too.
“I’m not stuck,” Charlie said, the slight raise in his hand telling you that he was shrugging. “I - uhh - I was kind of ... hoping for this. Actually.”
Oh. Oh lord. You were glad that you were in the dark now because the look on your face must have been hilarious. “You were hoping for this?” You prodded, hoping that he would continue.
“Yeah,” Charlie said. His own voice sounded nervous. A bit shaky. “I wanted to umm ... talk to you, for a while now. There’s something that’s been on my mind.”
“What’s that Charlie?” You asked, attempting to keep your voice somewhat level.
“You’re ... a guy, right? Sorry, that sounds so stupid. But that’s what you identify as right, that’s what ... you are?"
“Uh, yeah. That is what I identify as so ... that’s how I prefer to be ... perceived.”
“So technically if I were to ... uh, like you, I would be gay?”
This had to be the most awkward, and yet heart-pounding conversation that you ever had in your life. You weren’t even sure what to do, what to say. And his hand was still holding yours and you were sweating, and he was sweating and -
“Uhh yeah - or bisexual, since you ... like girls too. Or pansexual? There’s like this whole spectrum thing, I ... have some books about it?"
“No, that’s okay, I don’t want to read a book,” Charlie said quickly. His fingers fiddled with your hand, rubbing the back of it, before he pulled you in slightly closer. Your chest was against his. You could just barely make out his figure through the thin watery light coming through the gaps in the door. Mostly, what you saw was hair. “Are you gay, or bi, or the other thing you said?”
Your words got caught in your throat, and you had to calm yourself for a couple of seconds before you answered. You had never been so close to your crush before. “I’m - gay. I like guys.”
“Like - me?” He asked. It was definitely a question, not a statement, not at all cocky but curious, delicate.
“Oh god, um -” You mumbled. “Yeah. Like ... you. Sorry, this is such a weird place to tell you thaa-”
You were cut off, your words turning into a muffle by lips upon your own. Charlie’s lips. He tasted of the cola that he had drank earlier, still slightly fizzy almost. Smooth. Your eyes close, not that it makes a difference since you can’t see very much anyway, and you squeeze his hand as you kiss him back. As he pulls away, you can hear his breath getting heavier, and realize yours has joined him in that.
The dark made Charlie feel brave. It always had. It’s when he could forget the mousiness of his appearance and act like the man that he knew he was inside. The more assertive one who took risks. The one who could do what needed to be done. The MAN. Not the boy.
So he wrapped his other arm around your waist, keeping you close to him. “This okay?” He asked into your ear. You nodded the affirmative and he went in for another kiss. You weren’t sure what to do with your hands, this was your first make out session ... ever. Your thoughts were racing - did you put your arm around him too, or would that be too weird? No, you decided to go for the hand in the hair, pushing it away from his face, holding it back so it didn’t tickle your cheeks as you kissed him back.
He kept surprising you. He moaned into the kiss, his hand wandering down slightly. Grabbing your ass. You gasped into the next kiss and he then he pulled away chuckling. “I don’t think I’m totally gay but - I think you changed my mind about some things.”
“It’s ... good to be open-minded?” You said, struggling for words, the smile on your face so wide your cheeks are sore.
His hand was so warm against your hip, so aware were you of it. And then he kissed you again - which told you a lot. He didn’t have regrets. He knew what he was doing. the closer seemed to warm up by a couple of degrees or was that just you? His lips were so completely soft, much like the rest of his appearance, much like his hair.
And he was good at showing what he wants. He moved towards your neck, kissing it, making you moan slightly yourself, hiding it behind clenched teeth because you didn’t want anyone else to find out what was happening in here. You could hear laughter outside of the door - someone had done a funny dare. You were safe for now. But oh, his lips on your neck was starting to drive you crazy. “I don’t want to stop,” Charlie mumbled into your neck.
“We still have at least five minutes,” You countered, your voice not shaking or trembling, actually sounding ... confident. You felt more than accepted. You were feeling invited. Wanted. Valid.
His hand started to go underneath your shirt, and you froze only for a second. He felt something tight on your torso, which made him break away with confusion. “What’s that?”
“My binder, to uh - make me look more masculine,” you told him. “Sorry, maybe I should have said something-”
“No, that’s fine,” he said, laughing a little. “You could touch me instead?”
You hesitated but only for a second. Fuck it right? This chance might not come again, and it was only a bit of touching. Your hands went to the hem of his light shirt, and then your fingertips pressed onto the pale, soft skin beneath. A shiver went through Charlie’s body, big enough for you to feel. It excited you in return, that you were having this effect on the boy that you liked. It made you feel bolder, hands slipping upward, the skin soft, hairless. And there were hints of muscle there too, which you wouldn’t have expected, and it wasn’t just skinny boy muscle either - he was more fit than you thought. His hand tightened back around your hip, thumb skimming over the bone. He went back to kissing your neck, your jaw, sloppy kisses but you weren’t complaining. Up your hands went, feeling small nipples which made you smile to yourself. There was just something funny about that. But then you realized that his body was trembling ever so slightly.
Charlie was very reactive.
“More,” He pleaded with you, his lips meeting your own once more, in an all-encompassing desperate kiss. So you acquiesced. You gave in, moving your hands to his back and let your short nails scrape down the skin there, making his tremor even worse, a breathy moan exiting his mouth and erupting into yours. His tongue then entered along with it, and you got a real taste of him for the first time.
“More?” You asked him, during a slight breathing break, moving to kiss his neck now, giving him the treatment that he had been giving you. He let out a deep breath and nodded, unable to say anything more. You felt around his hips, those jutting hipbones from his thin frame and then lingered over the waistband of your jeans. You had come this far. Why not go all in? You unbuttoned him, slid the zipper down slowly. That was all that it took for him to push his hips further and you felt his arousal against your hand. “Whoa,” you said, feeling how hard he was already.
“Come on,” He whimpered. “Been thinking of this forever.”
“Me in a closet with you?” You asked, unable to hide the surprise.
“Just you -” he said, and then started to stutter as you palmed him through his boxers. Your first time ever holding an actual dick. You both were aroused by it ... and jealous of it. It felt like the absolute perfect size. “P-p-please don’t t-tease me - need m-more.”
“And you think four minutes is going to be enough?” You asked him, stroking the thin and soft fabric that was surrounding him.
“Only gonna need one with you - please,” He pleaded. And if that wasn’t just the sexiest thing that you ever heard. You went back to kissing his neck, being careful not to suck on it though you wanted to. There was still a small part of you that didn’t want Charlie to get teased over being any sort of intimate with you. You were used to being the butt of a joke - he didn’t deserve it. But you did run your tongue over his Adam’s apple as you slipped your hand inside of those boxers and felt him entirely. He was so warm, so smooth. There was a bit of hair down there, but it wasn’t uncontrollable. It actually added to it, bringing out some contrast in the textures. A moan overtook him then, another shiver from head to toe. A very quiet “fuck” came out of him in a whisper. And a wetness against your fingers - pre-cum. You slid it across the head of his cock with your thumb, and then started to pump the way that you had seen in porn. You weren’t COMPLETELY innocent, after all. Just because you had never done this before didn’t mean you didn’t have some idea of what to do.
And he was putty in your hands. His head leaned back, exposing more of that beautiful neck to your lips as you jacked him off inside of the closet. He was muttering your name over and over, which made your heart race. He knew it was you. Despite all of the darkness, where he could have been thinking or imagining someone else, he was sticking with the reality that it was you. His hands then suddenly, almost brutally, held your hips hard, hands clenching maybe leaving slight bruises, but you didn’t care. His mouth found yours again, and he used your lips to stifle the moans that came out of him as he came right into your hands. It was hot, sticky, thicker than you had imagined it to be. He thrusted up into your palm a couple of times with each squirt before he let his head down onto your shoulder, forehead digging into the bone. “Fuck y/n,” He whispered. “Your hands are so good.”
“Thanks,” You breathed, still feeling his kiss upon your lips. “From what I felt of yours, they’re good too.”
“Thanks,” he said, his tone shyer this time. You released your hand from him and put it down to your own side. You held onto the handful of sperm, suddenly realizing that you didn’t know what to do with it. As you heard him do his zipper back up, you tried to figure it out. The game wasn’t over so if you just ... let it drip onto the ground or wipe it on the only coat in here, it could be found. It would be weird if you just licked it off right? Plus, you weren’t even sure if you would like it. What if it tasted rancid? It certainly didn’t smell the most appealing. So, despite the awkwardness, you just sort of held it. Put your hands together behind your back, one under the other to make sure that it didn’t spill.
“Fuck, I still can’t believe we did that,” Charlie said. You couldn’t see him much in the darkness, just an outline of movement, but you could imagine him pushing his hair out of his face now, his cheeks pink. “Do you think we could do this again sometime? But maybe not in a closet, with all of our friends outside. But a place where we could ... you know, not have to muffle everything?”
Another round of laughter outside. As if they knew what was going on in here. And now all you could think about was what he would sound like without restraint. Those moans. Those whispered curses. All in that sweet and soft voice of his - you would be the one shaking like a leaf if that was to happen. And he wanted to hear you too. He wanted to bring out your own sounds.
“It would be kind of nice to see you the next time too,” you said, chuckling lightly.
“Yeah, definitely. So, is that a yes?”
The door opened and bright light made you squint as you clutched your fingers together behind you. Charlie still looked a little bit red in the cheeks but apart from that, there wasn’t much that gave away that anything had happened in here. “Hickey check!” Kirby joked, moving Charlie’s hair to peek at his neck. You held your breath as she checked yours too and then pouted. “God, you two are boring.”
“You would think you wouldn’t want people to hook up in your closet,” Charlie joked as he motioned for you to leave first. You did, hoping that the position of your hands wasn’t too suspicious. But no one really said anything about it.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” you said, eager to wash this off of your hands so you could use them like a normal person. But before you left, you caught Charlie’s eye, and you nodded as an answer to his question. He smiled back widely, and looked away from you before he would start to blush, but his eyes returned to your ass as you walked away and hoped that you would sit next to him when you came back.
You did. And everyone else was exchanging looks throughout the rest of the night, knowing how it felt like you two were at a party totally separate from theirs. Kirby was already taking pride in being a matchmaker, just because it happened in her house, taking all the credit - especially when a week later, you and Charlie went public.
#Charlie Walker#Charlie Walker x reader#Charlie Walker oneshot#Scream#Scream oneshots#CharlieW#oneshot#request#one shot#x reader
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Round 3 - Catholic Character Tournament
Propaganda below ⬇️
Gabriel
Well he's an angel so I'm taking him being catholic as canon. There are a lot of themes in the game that point to catholisism specifically.
He's so fucking funny. he listens to nine inch nails and quotes one of the songs in a fight basically "fight me like an animal". he and v1 kind of have this yuri thing going on. he has an official bodypillow. hes a metaphor for being excommunicated and no one gets him like me and my friends do
The *true* Catholic experience is leaving the church and having a gay awakening, ask anyone
its debatable if Gabriel truly believes he's "the one true savior" or is mocking the idea of it
ok im actually gonna write some gabe propaganda bc despite what you may expect from a game called ULTRAKILL theres a lot to be said about his character and how catholicism is represented
Gabriel is a genuinely caring person who struggles to square his desire to help people with his duty as an archangel. He's the only one in Heaven trying to make things better for those in Hell, but his faith is used to manipulate him into committing atrocities against the people he used to protect (see the "TRAITOR" mural in 4-2)
he only realizes his mistakes after losing everything and being sentenced to death, but he still decides with only a little time remaining to try and make things right. for the sake of spoilers i will just say that the measures he takes are... extremely drastic and very enjoyable. i just really like the idea that even facing the end of all living things, no matter how steep your crimes, it is never too late to fix your mistakes. you are never unworthy forgiveness.
hes also SO FUCKING GAY for this dumb little robot. it mauled him so hard he tasted his own blood and he fell in love right there. theres no way this guy has a normal healthy relationship to pain he is soooooooooo fucked. i love him. please vote for Gabriel "patron saint of gay lapsed catholics" Ultrakill !!!!!!!!
Shadow
In sonic destruction (the AI generated fan thing snapcube made a while ago) shadow was catholic or something which I think is reallyyyyyyy funny
Ok listen. I know this is a stretch but hear me out. He says “oh my God” in the Twitter takeovers so we know this is a possibility. I see him as a Christ-like figure because I saw his whole confrontation with Mephiles and was like “this is a thing that happened in the Bible??” and the pose Mephiles shows him in is literally like a crucifixion and Mephiles is meant to be a demon / false prophet reference. And also he’s called a demon in Shadow The Hedgehog 2005 then the guy who calls him that is like “I was wrong I’m sorry” and that also reminds me of a thing with Jesus in The Bible. But the biggest reason is his whole thing with Maria cause I think he’d come to earth and hear Ave Maria once and convert to Catholicism idk he’s like we’re comforted by a female familial figure named Mary sometimes called Maria?? And her color is blue????? Heck yeah I’m in because I Will Cry. Also feel free to share this as propaganda obv even if he doesn’t get in the bracket just. It’s funny.
I feel like he’d battle a lot with being seen or portrayed as a demon and how the aliens he’s related to very much look and act like demons idk lmao- and also I feel like confession would just be good for him I think he needs it for his mental health
There is a debate on the lovely website tunblr that Shadow T. Hedgehog is an allegory for Jesus Christ.
He is Jesus, idk what to tell you. He lived, he was sealed away, he was awakened again and deemed the ultimate lifeforms, he’s angry but not evil, does what he believes is best for people and the world at any given time. Total loser.
#gabriel ultrakill#ultrakill#cct polls#tumblr tournament#tumblr bracket#tumblr polls#polls#r3#shadow#shadow the hedgehog#sonic the hedgehog
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like batman!
14.8 K words
warnings - stupid teenage boys trying to ruin your life, not super beta read
summary - You and Robin get Kill Bill teenager-style revenge on Jason Carver and his friends after they spread a nasty rumor about you. Sapphic ways ensue (Do Revenge but a little gay).
Pressed and pleated bubblegum skirt that hangs below a baby pink sweater - you opposite the woman of sunshine and fake freckles, your best friend since the first day of sophomore year, Claire Green. She is doused in spring green hues and smells of fresh daisies. Her plush lips glossed and kiss-inspiring, cookie brown natural coils that make all the girls with perms leprechaun in jealousy. She may not be the queen, per se, of high school, but she seems to effortlessly hold down that number two spot.
People usually stare when you two pass, either lust or hatred or admiration, but now it feels different. You’re getting pointed at and giggled over. You as in you - specifically.
“Hey, Claire,” she hums, half listening and half asleep, “Am I crazy? I think everyone’s laughing… at me.”
She yawns and glares when two of your fellow debate team members jab fingers your way, “You’re totally sane. So far.”
The air feels thin when you and Claire wind up at your locker, like your throat is split seconds from completely muscling shut. Cheerleaders and mathletes alike let their eyes stray and suddenly you feel silly.
“Am I overdressed?” you open your locker door and go to work clearing out what remains of your lip glosses and polaroids and trinkets. You can hear the blood pumping in your ears, face boiling hot and hands brushing over the Barbie plains of your outfit, “‘Cuz I totally don’t have anything else to change into - my gym uniform isn’t even clean right now!”
“We were supposed to take those home last week,” Clair raises a brow at you, boredly twisting a dark curl around her finger.
“I forgot,” you pout, throwing your bag into your locker and slamming the door shut, “Seriously, though, this is not how I need junior year ending.”
“You look fine,” Claire shrugs, eyes scrawling over you quickly, “Really, I doubt anything is actually different. Maybe you’re just sobering up from all that princess worship.”
“I am not worshiped,” you lean against the cold metal and fold your arms across your chest, “Why are they staring at me? I hate this.”
Claire tilts her head and frowns, you hate how you can’t tell if she’s being genuine or not, “Alright. Fine,” she grabs you by the elbow with her cherry red polished nails, “Let’s go find Chrissy and hide in the bathroom. Will that make you feel better?”
“Much,” you truly detest the stares.
Freshmen to seniors, men to women, band geeks to varsity jocks, you feel deathbed ill. Like you’re raw meat on the side of the road and they’re maggots.
Before Claire gets so much as an opportunity to run with you, the honey-haired queen bee herself finds you. She is easily the only girl in school who could get away with denim overalls over a white shirt.
Chrissy’s brows are tightly knit, she bats her caked lashes and asks, “Is it true?”
Your expression morphs to match hers, “Is what true?”
She laughs like you’re stupid, “Did you blow Andy in the Enzo’s bathroom last night?”
Claire rears back, hand dropping, like you’re roadkill. Your head etch-a-sketches its way into blank simplicity - for a second there’s ringing silence. Bile climbs up your throat and nestles there in a lump you can’t swallow down. The shine of Chrissy’s pearl earrings catch your stare and it’s so tempting to stay there.
Pretend you didn’t hear her.
Pretend you don’t know her.
Pretend you didn’t go out with Andy last night.
“No way, why would I do that?” your lip wobbles with telltales of nausea and Claire lays a hand to your back, a tender squeeze to your shoulder, “That bathroom is, like, ruled by feces.”
“Well,” Chrissy throws her hands up, “that’s what Andy’s saying happened.”
Shock subsides long enough for brutal rage to crack your prim shell, “Where is he?”
You and Andy weren’t steadies - you thought that could’ve been in the cards eventually, foolishly - last night was your first date and you assumed he was a nice guy. Because he was your friend and he never gave you a reason to think otherwise.
God, what an idiot you’ve proven to be.
“Andy!” he jumps from the shriek of your voice, smugness overtakes him as Chrissy and Claire rush to catch up with your thunderous steps, “What the fuck?”
“Aw, c’mon,” Jason steps forward as he usually does when one of his friends gets cornered, “Mad he spilled your little secret?”
“Excuse you?”
“We all knew,” Jason nudges your arm, “you don’t exactly keep your legs shut, honey bunny.”
You wrench back and Chrissy moves from your side of the courtyard to Andy’s, “But it’s not fucking true! You should all know that!”
“Hey, that’s not how we should speak,” Andy goes to cup your cheek but you shove him back, “Not very ladylike, baby.”
“Do not call me ‘baby’, just set the record straight,” from the corner of your eye, you see Claire shift from behind you to beside Chrissy, “Nothing happened after dinner last night!”
“Nothing?” Andy leans closer, other students pause and circle. It sickens you more than when you had the actual flu over winter break.
You can’t bear the way people look at you, like you’re wicked. A temptress in Molly Ringwald’s clothing. Slamming a palm into Andy’s chest so hard he stumbles, you feel blood broiling in your face as you shout, “Nothing!”
“Not even dessert?”
You saw the musical Chicago with Claire and Chrissy over summer - then again with your mother, and again with Lucas (who sang its criticism and insisted it would be terrible before he even saw it). From that very first viewing, your favorite character was Velma Kelly, who claimed to not even know her husband and sister were dead until she was washing the blood off her hands.
And, similarly, you honestly don’t remember kicking Andy Johnson in the balls so hard he red-faced, neck-veined bawled on the pavement. You happen to wind up in counselor Kelley’s pink-bricked office by chance.
“That story is not going to pass, young lady,” Kelley folds her hands across the laminate surface of her desk, a pointed stare poisoning you from beneath her bangs.
“Well, what am I supposed to say, Ms. Kelley?” your eyes burn with tears and mascara waterfalls have freshly dried against your cheeks, “Obviously, I kicked his kid cauldrons but he totally deserved it! He spread an awful rumor about me, he doesn’t deserve the other cheek!”
Kelley pushes off her desk and settles deep into her wheeled office chair, one hand clutching either armrest, “I really thought you were it. Honestly. Captain of the debate team, excellent GPA, loved by the entire school,” she presses her apple tinted lips thinly, “I’m very disappointed in you.”
“What else was I supposed to do?”
“Ignore it,” you huff and she drives the knife deeper, “It’s the last day of school, nobody would have remembered it past summer.”
“So what? This is all my fault?”
Kelley shrugs and you want to puke all over her black flats and sea phthalo rug, “I’m sorry, but what do you want me to say?”
Your lips pull impossibly down and a tightness curls in your lungs. Darkness looms, and there’s a terrible sense of evil that drips like tar off the rungs of your ribs. In a broad picture, this is far from the overbearing death sentence you feel brewing, but you can’t look at it from that lens. It’s too fresh, like if someone wedged their thumb into a gunshot wound.
At least Velma got to kill the people that screwed her over.
“You’re being put on a probation period for next year,” she tilts her head, “if you return,” another round of mascara leakage follows her words, “If you return next year, you will not only be stripped of your title as captain of the debate team - you won’t even be on the team. And you’re going to be serving five weeks of Saturday detention,” Kelley stands and moves to stand in front of her desk, both hands supporting her against the surface, “I know you’re a good kid, but I think you should try conducting yourself with a little more… respect.”
Your jaw hangs loose, “Ms. Kelley- “
She puts up a finger and walks around you to the door, shouldering it open and jerking her head towards the hall, “You’ll also be sent home early. Clear out your locker and say goodbye.”
You jelly-leg your way out of Ms. Kelley’s office, desperately clinging to the walls and lockers as you make your way through the winding corridors. Dry heaving, you barely manage to muscle out of the building without puking.
“Hey, Pretty in Pink! You okay?”
It’s no surprise that super senior Munson is still lingering around the grounds, he’s smoking against the hood of his tin can van. Eddie is a perfectly fine person when you’re not intimidated by the Satanic mask and robes he parades himself in. Sure, he reeks of weed and doesn’t brush his hair, but he isn’t a bad person.
“That’s a movie title, not a person, asshole!”
But you’re in no particular mood.
He sits up and off the van hood, meandering over as you hobble past the student parking lot, “You look like you died.”
“Maybe I did, what’s it matter to you?”
He quiets, slowly walking beside you, “You, uh, wouldn’t happen to need a ride home, would you?”
Walking home from Hawkins High would be a stab in the gut while you’re down. And it isn’t like your social standing could possibly fall further on its ass.
That jabs the thumb in your gunshot wound.
You sniffle and feel the tears blot your waterline, Eddie stutters back - his hands fly up in defense as you hiccup a sob. Throat squeezing shut and shoulders scrunching to your chest like the most agonized accordion. You feel childish - highlighted in pink and runny makeup - wailing in front of Eddie Munson.
How could he?
A scream is bubbling beneath the surface and Eddie so kindly guides you to his van, a hand hovering over your shoulder, “Okay, I’ll just assume you’re having a shit day and not full of Munsonphobia.”
A face wash and steaming shower later, you’re sitting in front of the boob tube with America’s darling Jeopardy. Your mother sleeps fitfully upstairs while your father is still bored in his cubicle prison. That terrible something brewing inside you surfaces from your stomach acid when the phone chimes and rattles. You fling a hand out to the side table and raise it, “Hello?”
“Hey!” Claire. You can imagine her twirling the cord around her finger and that brings a sliver of hope. The hope is swallowed by that previous brew, “So.”
“Uh oh,” you curl into the corner of the couch, legs tugging up to your chest and a pillow brought to press your side, “‘So’ isn’t good, what’s ‘so’ mean?”
You hear her suck in a sharp breath, “So, me and Chrissy have been thinking, and we’ve decided that maybe we all, you know, take this summer to maybe process what happened today.”
A bizarre thing for your best friend to say, no?
“What is there to process?” your legs swing down, you lean forward, almost falling nose-first into the carpeted floor, “Claire, you know he’s lying!”
“Yeah, but you assaulted him in the middle of the quad! Girl, you have to know how insane that was,” you’ve been called that a lot.
By the people who know you beneath the sugar and snap peas, at least. But Claire Green is just as bad, if not worse. She once didn’t talk to you for three months because you accidentally spilled beer on her favorite dress - it was miserable.
“You’re kidding!”
She wasn’t.
“Good luck,” you’ve heard her speak sincerely before, and this was not one of those times, “Honestly. I’ll call, okay?”
You squeeze the pillow at your side, so tight that you’re almost worried the stitching will pop between your fingers. Your jaw screws tight, clenching, “Okay.”
The scream crawls up from your throat and splatters against the throw pillow you’re clutching.
Honestly, you’ll take being fired from the Hawkins AMC to save them money if it just meant that you’d stop seeing all the Edvard Munch scream faces of the peers that forsake you. Though, maybe the Starcourt mall isn’t the perfect place to apply if you’re seeking refuge from seeing those peers every day.
“So, uh, what experience do you have?” Robin never once claimed to have the best social skills, but when the fallen princess of your high school stumbles in asking for a job - it just might make you feel a little worse, “Like, with… this?”
You drum your rose pink nails against your knee, “With ice cream parlors specifically? None, but I’ve been doing customer service since I was sixteen.”
Not super long ago, but Robin isn’t going to drill you on when exactly that was.
Robin has always found you charming, since those early days on the playground in Hawkins Elementary to, well, now. With nectarine smiles and cozy aura, you always entranced her whenever you two spoke. Which was never often after elementary school, but still it counts.
“Okay, well,” Robin slides your resume over the backroom table, carefully dodging a mysterious stain that she’s certain is from Steve, “shockingly, we don’t have a ton of people applying so I’ll just,” she gestures wildly, “You’re hired.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” she cards her fingers together awkwardly, “It’s also the last weeks of summer, so not a lot of people are looking for work anyway,” she tilts her head suddenly, “Technically I’m not supposed to just tell you you’re hired, so please don’t mention anything to,” she points at the cherry door to the floor room, “him.”
“Of course,” you stand as she does, smoothing out your skirt with a shaky exhale, “I’m honestly just glad you considered me when you saw that it was, well, me that applied.”
“Oh,” Robin blanks, brows raising sharply, “Oh my God, I - you know - never believed that rumor.”
“Sure,” you fold your arms and she feels sick at the thought of making you uncomfortable, “It’s okay, Robin,” she’s shocked you remember her name, “Everybody believed that shit.”
One bonus to come from this entire nightmare is that you now don’t live in fear of swearing when Jason can’t barrage you with what ladylike behavior should be.
“No, really,” Robin gnaws her bottom lip, eyes threading to the clock above your head, “I, too, have a vendetta against those assholes. So, I sort of figured they were lying.”
“What’d they do to you?” you take precious care in not sounding as though whatever they did to her isn’t as bad as what they did to you.
Robin likes that. She’s always liked that about you. Your transparency.
“They bullied me,” she sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, eyes widening, “Like, a lot.”
“Are you serious?” you step forward, arms dropping boneless at your sides, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, well I doubt it’s something they went bragging about to their local- “ she stops herself.
“Local what?”
Robin cringes, picking at her nail beds and looking down, “Airhead. Sorry.”
“It’s better than slut,” you lean against the cold marble counter, “Chrissy, too?”
“Technically no, but she never did anything to stop it either,” Robin joins your side, almost brushing arms.
“I wish we could just…” you hold up your hands in a choking motion, fingers flexing tight, “fuck up their lives, you know?”
“Why can’t we?” she turns, but you stare straight ahead.
“What if we get caught?”
Robin moves a little closer, leaning forward and tilting so you two are forced to lock eyes. She grins, “Just don’t be obvious. If we work together, people won’t see it coming. Nobody from school comes here ‘cuz Steve’s shattered ego scares ‘em off, they don’t know we know each other.”
“I dunno…”
Shrugging, Robin stumbles forward and grabs an ‘AHOY’ sailor hat, tossing it your way with all the plastic candor of someone experienced in thankless customer service.
“Then welcome to Scoops Ahoy! you are now a private in our navy,” she grabs a spare uniform and presses it into your chest, “And captain of scrubbing the poop deck. Newbie policy.”
“How long does that last?” you shudder at the thought.
“Two months,” she holds up a finger before you can groan and huff in cheap protest, “Or until Steve forgets - which is usually three weeks.”
“Awesome.”
Robin nods and grabs the silver handle to the door at your side, “Awesome.”
White, rose-patterned dress with lacing at the hems - you walk up to school alone for the first time since ever. Taking the bus to school was a new experience, too - usually, you would ride with Claire, but she failed miserably in her plan of calling over summer. Now, you find yourself searching for her.
There were years wasted that you felt needed repentance for. That or you needed her at your side again, and you refuse to accept that reality.
People’s heads twitch your way as you pass and it sends you right back to that May, what was months ago now feels like minutes prior. Your chest squeezes all over again - how cliche. You will it to stop but then you spot something even worse than a couple of underclassmen leering.
Claire linking hands with Andy, looking at him with bambi eyes as though he’s an angel among the clouds. She wears a blue sundress under a navy sweater. Chrissy stands beside her with Jason, swamped in a candy red dress with her own crimson sweater. You earnestly try not to stare, but coming back to school means business as usual. And business as usual means Jason Carver can't keep his fucking mouth shut.
“Hey!” he sings your name and dread curdles inside the bowl of your gut, “C’mere!”
You tense, both hands strangling one of your bag straps.
“Come on, you,” he waves a hand towards the group, laughing.
Chrissy and Claire glare at him before giving you wide-eyed stares. Patrick shuffles and glances on occasion. Andy doesn’t even look at you.
You don’t know which is the worst.
But Jason won’t shut up, so you make your way into the group that chumbaited you for the sharks, desperately trying not to let your knees buckle.
“Hey there, pretty girl,” Jason tilts his head, “Meant to call.”
“Of course,” you keep your head angled to the side, and for a moment you see Eddie Munson making his third trip into Hawkins High. He sees you, too.
And you’re brought back to that toddler tantrum of junior year’s last day.
“You understand, right?” he loops an arm around Chrissy and Andy matches, even pressing a kiss to the side of Claire’s head, “You’re not mad at my Chris or anything, right?”
Students gather and cling in a tight circle around you and your former friends. You feel hot-faced and watery-eyed all over again, “Jason, please- “
“Well, we just wanna be sure there’s no, you know, bad blood.”
Nobody runs to defend you. God, were these really the people you thought you’d be with forever?
“You did have a whole summer to cool off, after all,” Jason leans forward, smiling as if he’s untouchable. And as far as he and his leeches are concerned, they are untouchable. If you’re caught trying to poke the bear, its guidance counselor mother will rip your head off, “You wouldn’t hold a grudge like that for so long, would you?”
The oozy hellfire of people’s stares schlucks you into a corner. The only corner safe of Jason’s lava dump.
You grit your teeth and puppeteer your lips into something acceptable as a smile, “Of course, not.”
“Of course, not,” he fakes a punch to your shoulder, your breathing heavies and you know that as soon as he finally releases you, you’re going to find a broom closet to scream and cry in. His voice drops into a whisper and Andy’s impish lips curl, “Good girl. Was that so hard?”
How could they?
How could they?
No.
How dare they?
You’re dabbing black tears away before they can drift or smear, you march straight to the band’s practice room - straight to the sound of wind instruments blaring their off-key tune. Your hand slams against the chipped blue paint of the practice door.
Brass handle crashes through the doorstop and you watch Robin jump five feet from her chair, big ocean eyes blown wide at your frame in the doorway.
“Alright,” you sniffle and Robin stands, careful yet shaky hands coming to your arms. You give up the fight of saving your makeup and wipe away the budding tears, “Let’s do it,” she quirks a brow at you, “Let’s do revenge.”
Robin twists, looking around the still, cautious faces of her bandmates before dragging you into the costume closet they share with the theater department.
“What happened?” her mouth opens and closes, not unlike a fish, as she drums up some idea of how to comfort your tattered ego.
“Fucking Jason,” you choke on the lump that never quite faded since May, “He humiliated me,” you roll your eyes and Robin carefully brushes a thumb under your leaky eyes, “What else is new?”
“Do you wanna hug?” she steps back, arms flinging wide at her sides, “I know we aren’t, like, best friends or anything and we just sort of work together, but- “
“No, no, I need this,” you shake out your hands - deep breath in, deep breath out, “I want to be mad right now,” you grab Robin by the arms and pull her close, practically nose to nose, “We are gonna fuck those Madonna mule-fuckers up, Buckley.”
“Woah,” she laughs, a raspy, deep sound, “Chills.”
“Thank you,” releasing Robin, you nod curtly, “Now, with my intel and your unassuming status, we can really pull this off.”
“Who do we go after first?”
You fold your arms, eyes falling to the brown splotched carpet, “You ever play Kung Fu Master?” she shakes her head, bobbed hair shifting with her movements, “Well, as you fight - the opponents get harder.”
“Oh, like Destroyer?”
“Sure,” you swing your backpack around to hang off your chest, pulling out a notebook and flipping to a blank page. Robin watches you scribble, pressing her back to the wall and eyeing the names you plant, “The easiest to take down is Patrick McKinney. He doesn’t really stand out, and he isn’t the strongest guy in Jason’s circus. Generally smart.”
“Is there a but coming?”
“But,” you jab a finger at the notebook.
McKinney - ailurophobia. only showers when everyone else leaves. trusts Lucas
“I’ve babysat Lucas Sinclair since I was thirteen,” you move onto the next boss in your makeshift, live-action game, “he’s our man on the inside on this one.”
Robin almost gasps at the next name down your list, “Cunningham? As in- “
“Chrissy - yeah. She also isn’t very asshole-ish, or vengeful. Also not super strong, her bones are like a baby bird’s, so she honestly won’t be too hard. But we have to make sure there’s something we can hang over her head or else she’ll say something. If she says something,” you point your eraser’s end in Robin’s face, “it’s game over.”
Cunningham - deathly afraid of spiders, baby bird bones
“Who's next?”
You can’t help but to laugh at the twisted fates that led you here, “Claire Green. My former best friend. The biggest backstabber in school with the ability to hold a grudge longer than a life sentence. Not nearly as influential as Chrissy, but she’s incredibly smart. At that point, we need dirt on both Chrissy and Patrick because no matter how hard we try to cover our asses, she’ll know anything weird in her life is my fault.”
Green - hates going out in the rain, Goddamn does she hate getting dirty
“Then Jason?”
“Nope!” you chirp, looking at Robin with a grin that sparkles, “He’s last. Next, we have Andy. A pure monster. Nothing but a stupid, popular monster.”
“Like Dracula?”
You giggle and Robin leans closer into your side, “Like Dracula.”
Johnson - dad is the pastor, hated by Eddie with the fury of 1,000 suns
“Now Jason?”
“Now Jason,” you finish your hurried jots and press the notebook into Robin’s chest, “No known weaknesses other than the fact he’s an arrogant stain on the state of Indiana.”
“Great, so,” Robin tosses up a hand, “how exactly do we get the dirt on Patrick and Chrissy to keep their mouths shut?”
Your gaze drifts from the rosy freckles of her cheeks to a miniskirt and shoulder-padded overcoat. It reminds you of the women you see on the local Hawkins news channel.
Robin’s head turns, “Is it stained? What’s wrong?”
“Do you have a microcassette recorder?”
“No,” she wets her cherried bottom lip, “but I know someone who does.”
Steve Harrington - a casual enjoyer of all sorts of piracy.
Robin never suspected his consistency in low-level crime would pay off.
You look at her through your lashes and something in her chest stutters, “You wanna get some cats with me after school?”
“Clever way of begging for pussy.”
“Ew,” you put up a finger, “never again, Buckley. Never again.”
Under the promise - a solemn swear - of getting the delightfully purring bundles of fur in your arms a good home, Mrs. Burman allowed you and Robin to take five cats off her hands at the shelter. Mrs. Burman was kind when other adults slammed their doors in your face - she heard the rumors, by now everybody had. That didn’t cloud her judgment, though.
Patrick hates nothing more than showering in front of his fellow men - it feels exposing, like stage spotlights directly in the face kind of exposing. And what he hates next to that, is being wrong.
A locker door clinks shut and he clenches the eggshell towel tighter around his waist.
“Hello?”
Silence stills him.
A moment wades by. Another follows.
Patrick clears his way to the bench and hurries through his dressing routine, at least until he notices that his shirt has vanished.
He feels the thrumming of his skin and places an open palm on the cracked metal door to his locker. Something pushes back. Sharp and quick into his hand. Patrick’s knees hit the varnish bench and he stumbles, sliding down the lockers behind him until his ass hits the cruel linoleum. The metal door is batted open and between the slot peeks a furry, muddy white face. Terrifyingly sparkling blue eyes that linger.
A mew cracks and paws pitter out of his locker, gracefully bouncing onto the bench, and right to the edge of the wood. The kitten pops onto his chest and Patrick tilts his face, neck craning as far from his nemesis as possible.
You and Robin lock eyes behind the wall of metal cages. Two cats huddled under either of your arms. Crouching carefully to the scratched linoleum, you both set one of the kittens loose from your holds. They scamper along the checkered lines before nuzzling into the divots of Patrick’s ribs.
Getting Lucas to sneak you both into the boys' locker room after everyone else had left was easy - ice cream bribes for a week easy - but getting him to squeeze catnip into the body wash Patrick used was harder.
“Why’d you lie, Patrick?” Robin murmurs, he doesn’t recognize her voice because of course, he wouldn’t, “Why do you hurt, Patrick?”
You slough another cat onto the patched shine and grin when the man behind the bench whimpers.
Robin holds one cat between her arms, she eyes you wearily and you nod her along. Creeping around the corner of the lockers, Robin cards her fingers through the ginger hair of the cat in her embrace. You imagine she looks powerful.
Like the sun. Or the ocean.
He doesn’t even recognize her face.
Maybe you underexaggerated how much of an asshole Patrick McKinney could be.
But Robin decides that it takes too long to explain their history, so she pins this chance encounter elsewhere.
“Why would you lie?” she tilts her head and the ginger in her arms claws to be let down.
“I didn’t say anything!” Patrick’s eyes are screwed shut, face blighted away from the purring balls of fur on his chest, “I never said a word!”
Robin, as if she can sense your thoughts in her throat, says exactly what you think, “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” she kneels to his side and digs into the pockets of her sunshine yellow shorts, “You want help, Pat?”
He nods helplessly. Breath thick and brows glistening with sweat.
She laughs, honest to God, and presses the cold end of Steve’s microcassette recorder into his throat.
“Alright, sweetpea,” Robin pulls the recorder back and rubs her thumb into the bowl of the red record button, “I’ll get the cats outta here if you can look me in the eyes and admit that you knew that blow job was all a lie.”
“Why do you even care?” he snaps.
“I just hate to see a promising young woman’s life ruined. Now,” Robin holds the cat closer to his glaring face, clicking the recorder alive as he sucks in a breath.
“Andy Johnson was lying through his fucking teeth about the blow job and I knew it! All our friends knew it! Now, get these fucking cats off me, freak!”
Coming to a stand, Robin lays the ginger ripping at her sleeve onto Patrick’s chest as she ends the recording.
“Thanks for cooperating, McKinney!”
You two share a high-five that echoes in the hallway as you storm off.
Following the hitched success, you and Robin collect and split the kittens between Dustin and Eddie. For the low, low price of free - an unbelievable deal. And it’s from the Forest Hills trailer park that you drive Robin home in a candy red 1985 Audi 5000S. Suddenly, there’s a gasp and Robin’s hand slams into the dashboard - you glare and she mouths a spoonful of apologies.
“Just - oh my God - how’re we gonna get the literal queen of Hawkins High?”
You would roll your eyes if you weren’t focused on navigating towards the pink house with red shutters that homes Robin Buckley, “That is so easy.”
One excuse note and one hall pass - both doctored - later, you and Robin are skipping third period to sit, sweaty and deranged, on the metal skeleton of the stagelight crane. Freshmen quarter club rush in Hawkins takes the form of many club and extracurricular leaders selling themselves to the incoming students. Chrissy is next.
Your legs dangle from the open spots in the cage’s hollow, Robin warily eyes the rusted bucket sat between you both - tied to one of the crane’s rungs by thick rope.
“They’re trying to climb up, I’m not kidding - look,” your eyes stick like paste to where the new debate club president advertises himself to the crowd. Robin huffs and leans, continuing to peer inside your bucket, “I honestly can’t even believe I’m doing this. This is crazy. You’re crazy. I don’t- “
“Shut up, Buckley,” you snap a hand over your mouth as soon as the words leave. She looks like you just stabbed her - Brutus to Caesar cruelty, “I’m so sorry. Oh, Robin,” you lay a hand to her shoulder across the bucket, “I didn’t mean that. I’m just- “
“Agitated and irritated?” Robin suggests, rose petal lips tilting up, “Me too. It’s fine, just try to not do that again.”
“Of course,” you realize you’ve held her for too long and pull your hands into your lap, legs swinging, “You know, I was president of debate before… everything.”
“Yeah,” Robin leans her chin onto the rod that reeks of iron, “I think everyone knew,” she sighs through her nose, head quartering to look at you through her lashes, “You know what you didn’t know about me?”
“Of course, I don’t know if I don’t know.”
“Shush,” she bites her bottom lip just to hold her grin from growing too wide, “I was in theater. Freshman year. And first semester sophomore year.”
“No shit?” you chuckle, quiet and restrained, “Well. Something not a lot of people know is that I was in chess.”
“Are you serious?” her jaw drops, neck hanging over the banister, “No fucking way.”
“Yes fucking way,” you look down, tempted to drop a boot straight onto the new debate president’s head, “I hate him.”
“You two know each other?”
“Not really.”
She giggles, and that makes the wait for Chrissy a little bit better.
Robin’s previous upset returns when Chrissy stands a little more to the left than what was planned. She curses, “dammit”, and digs into her navy shirt’s collar down into her bra. You watch with knitted brows as she pulls out a dime and hangs it above the queen bee’s skull.
Like a pin it dollops right into her scalp. You gasp and she shrugs.
“Ouch!” Chrissy cups the tender spore, stumbling over her shoes into the correct spot.
Before you get to laugh, Higgins begins to search upwards. Hurriedly, you yank your legs through the holes and Robin attempts to duck from his line of sight. Her knee knocks the bucket and nearly sends the tin of eight-legged spindles right onto you. Fumbling hands attempt to catch it, but it only slips. You roll onto your hip, dodging the spiders and latching onto the pail to fling it over the edge of the crane.
Since you’ve known Chrissy Cunningham, she has always made you take care of the little arachnids - big or small, deadly or friendly - they all petrified her to her very bones.
And now that she’s a big bad teenager, she takes initiative to sling a scream and run rather than freezing up.
Robin ducks low as she waddles down the side of the crane, you following after. Higgins studies the metalwork as it rattles and you barely manage to unhook your skirt from a stray spoke before he comes around to the ladder. Your peachy skirt tore near the thigh and Robin hates how she stares, but she can’t bring herself to look away.
Robin takes you by the hand, shaky and sweaty, but you don’t say a word because your palms are just the same. You two slam to a squeaky stop in front of the home ec. room - giggling, you share a look. A look turns into a stare.
“We almost got caught because of your ass!” Robin snickers, fingers trailing to the soft material of your skirt.
“You got down fast enough, racer,” you nudge her arm with yours, “Good job, by the way, it’s as impressive as it is concerning that you can hop ladders.”
“And good job on gathering those spiders,” she leans against the pale popcorn wall and tilts her head to meet her shoulder, “How’d you get them anyway?”
“Munson said he owed me a favor for the cats,” you join her side at the wall. Arm to arm. She feels warm.
Footsteps call your name.
Robin pauses. You’ve been frozen since you caught the first glance of who had walked in.
Chrissy Cunningham stands in the middle of the abandoned hallway, fists balled beneath the hanging material of her varsity jacket. Her chest rises and falls like she’s ran the width of Indiana. She ignores Robin entirely.
“Did you have anything to do with it?”
You should’ve known better than to stop here - there was a bathroom at the end of the hall.
Now she looks at Robin. She recognizes her, unlike Patrick.
“Did you?”
You step up, Robin pushed behind you. You set your face stern and hold Chrissy’s attention, “I poured them.”
You’ve never seen Chrissy so mad. Not once.
But now, she’s earnestly pissed, “Why?!”
“You ruined my fucking life, Christine.”
“Don’t call me that.”
Robin watches you two trade blows like you’re the best of tennis players.
Chrissy continues, her fist flying to her chest, “It isn’t my fault that you got fucked over!”
You feel like you’ve been shot straight through the heart, “It’s all your fault, Chris. You could’ve said something! You have more power here than anybody, you should’ve said something - we were friends!” tears cool the heated skin of your face as they drip, “Maybe if you could get out from under your douchenozzle boyfriend’s thumb, you’d see what a colossal bitch you’ve been.”
With a shriek, Chrissy darts forward and wraps her bird-boned arms around your waist. Your back hits the floor with a thud and you’re winded - Robin tries prying the queen off of you but Chrissy flings an elbow back and it crunches Robin’s nose. Your nose copies when she curls a fist and punches you - blood crawls down your throat and leaks onto your tongue.
Non-vengeful may have been the wrong label then.
You wring her neck in your hands and push against the fill of her throat, stiff-arming until she heaves and pulls away. Before she can gather herself, you get on top and push an arm into her chest to hold her down. Robin kneels at your side reflexively and presses the recorder to Chrissy’s lips.
“Admit it!” you crush harder into her chest when she’s silent, “Admit it, Christine!”
“It doesn’t matter,” she spits, kicking her legs under you, “Nothing will change - you’ll still be fucked because nobody cared that much anyway!”
Robin looks to you, face pinched in concern.
You pick Chrissy up by the collar of her jacket and slam her back into the ground. She thuds, echoing through the halls, “Say it!”
Chrissy gives in because, of course, she does. As peculiar as it is to have her fight you, her rage doesn’t last long because it’s still her. When the Jason Carver influence disappears, it’s just her. And she tearfully submits to your prolonged hatred.
“Andy lied about the blowjob and we all knew it.”
You stand with Robin’s help, spitting a glob of mucus and blood onto the floor, “Clean that. And if you say anything about this, just remember who tackled who.”
Robin deletes the message counselor Kelley leaves detailing her absence as you kick off your shoes at the front door. Following that, you end up on her bathroom counter - Robin standing between your spread legs. She holds a pack of frozen carrot slices to your bruising (but thankfully not broken) nose.
“You were kind of terrifying back there,” she admits, pressing the frostbitten plastic closer to your skin.
“Sorry.”
“No,” Robin chuckles, thick and raspy through soft lips, “It was kinda hot.”
Your lips drop flat. Brows raising hairline high.
“What?”
Robin stands back, arm still extended to hold the carrots in place, “No- not like. You know. Not like- “
“Robin, are you? Are you into girls?”
The carrots pop against the ground, splintering apart from the impact. She steps further back, but you grab her wrist before she can yank it to her side. Robin swallows rough.
“It’s okay, Robin- Robin,” you lean in, “I like girls, too.”
Something difficult to come to terms with when you were younger, but watching Grease is admittedly more fun when you don’t have to lie to yourself and say you’re only watching for John Travolta.
Robin finally releases her tense shoulders and grins, both parts skeptical and good-natured, “No fuckin’ way.”
Slowly, you nod, pulling her back between your legs, “Yes fuckin’ way. Now you’ve got a storm to bandage,” you point straight at the bridge of your nose, “Right here.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Robin rolls her eyes and picks up the carrots by her foot. Reaching into the medicine cabinet, she pulls loose a cotton pad and medical tape, “What was your life like? Before… everything.”
You assume she asks to keep your mind off the pain to come, but it feels nice to be asked about yourself. Or, at least, how you’ve changed.
“It was kinda weird,” you close your eyes as Robin closes in, her soft breath caresses your cheeks and something like affection blooms there, “Super weird. It always felt like I had to act like this good girl from some fucked up movie.”
“Mmm, you’re still pretty prissy and pristine.”
“Yeah, but now I can say ‘fuck’ without getting lectured about my lack of ladylike behavior.”
She laughs and you grin at the sound.
“What’re you hoping for?” you imagine she sticks her tongue out when she focuses. You’re scared to make eye contact though, scared of what it might insinuate. What it might lead to.
“I don’t even know,” you admit, “I just want them to know they made a mistake crossing me. I want them to feel like if I could, I’d run them down with my car.”
“Would you?”
You remain silent. Three seconds pass before you teasingly shrug. The two of you giggle and it's something from a romcom, only now there is no John Travolta or Judd Nelson. And maybe you two prefer it this way (you definitely do).
“What’d they do to you?”
Robin’s finger shakes and knocks the tender cartilage of your nose, a million little apologies following soon after.
“Just, you know, the basics,” she forces a laugh, hollow and thin, “making fun because I ramble and say things I shouldn’t and can’t pick up on social cues. I also don’t have a lot of friends - I mean they’re all either acquaintances from band or my coworkers… clearly.”
“What was ‘making fun’?”
“Oh, just - gum in my hair, stealing my homework, dead animals in the locker, dog shit on the lawn.”
“Jesus, how did I not hear about that?”
“Don’t know. They were pure evil.”
Robin pats your knee when she’s finished patching you up. Your eyes flutter to life and she holds out a hand to help you off the bathroom counter’s water-and-soap-scummed surface. Electric shocks tingle from her hand to yours.
She thinks over the time. Your peers aren’t even at lunch yet, “You wanna get ice cream?”
“Yeah. Definitely.”
You two don’t hold hands as you get ice cream, but something sugary strings you together. You can feel it. Bubblegum and banana split delights are just the cherry on top.
It’s a nice break before you potentially get your ass kicked again by another former best friend.
The hoods and bonnet and beanies may have been a touch too far, but you’ve always had a taste for the finest flair (and protecting your hair from the bullying of mother nature). And flair kindly distracts you from the way that Claire and Andy are kissing in the frame of her bedroom window. She did always hate going out in the rain.
Robin holds you by the shoulder, stray hairs clinging out from under her beanie to the sides of her face. You find the burn of your eyes there, when you look away from Claire’s familiar bedroom lights. Years spent under those lights - daytime, nighttime, fun, fear, tears, the lights have seen it all. When her parents were home and when they were away, like they are now.
Before Robin can grant you pity and sorrows, you shove the plastic package of toilet paper into her arms, “Let’s fuck this bitch up.”
You rip open seemingly endless flat packets of instant mashed potatoes of varying flavors - cheddar, garlic, garlic cheddar, and Vermont sour cream and chives. With speed and intent, you dump flavored white powders along the paved walkway. Some of it splits into the gassy lawn as Robin throws toilet paper clumps at vacant windows and the surrounding plant life.
Your one-woman mashed potato brigade is stopped on the first lines with one glance into the bedroom window.
Andy is rolling the mint green shirt from Claire's body, exposing a midnight black bra. It takes you back.
How Andy would flirt like you were a delicate princess and he a mere peasant boy. How Claire helped you dress and prep for the date. How Claire picked you up after dinner. How excited Andy seemed when you agreed to go out. How excited you were when your parents finally agreed that you can go out.
How mad he was when you said you didn't want to go any further than hand-holding.
What aches most is Claire's betrayal. You actually, foolishly, thought that maybe the two of you would still be friends after the disaster of May. At least until that call. Her call.
With all the might in your body, the last meaningful hand of instant mash powder is launched right at Claire's bedroom window. Clarity hits you when it splats thickly and they jump.
Hurriedly, you grab Robin by her black long-sleeve and drag her into the rose bushes that separate the Green and Schumer houses. She goes down first, back into mulch - you follow, elbows holding you up. Noses separated by a hair's width.
"Hi," you're quiet. Whispering against her apple lips.
"Hi."
"Shh."
"You- “ you cover her mouth before she can respond.
Claire pops the front door open, holding a silk, plum robe together at the chest. Andy lingers in the background.
You roll off of Robin as she wails at the mess from her doorstep. Robin hates when you move, but she'll accept the lackluster dance party to the tunes of Claire Green's misery. Small wiggles and finger disco, but it makes you both giggle quietly.
As far as either of you can hear, Andy makes no move to step forward and comfort your former best friend.
From within the bushes, Robin claws up mudded dirt and flings it at Claire's expensive robe. You gape and clamp a hand over your mouth to keep from giggling too severely. The both of you crawl away, coming to a stand in the Schumer's vegetable garden backyard.
Lovingly, you swipe mud and dirt from her frayed, peeking hairs and face and she watches you clean your palms on black leggings.
"Sorry we didn't get a confession from her."
"Whatever. I already have two. One straight from the Cunningham herself.”
Robin follows as you begin over the garden fence and back down the sidewalk to your home. Her fingers twist over one another and she feels her mouth run dry.
"Really," she starts, "I'm sorry. About everything."
"It's fine," you slow your pace to be at her side, "I kinda just don't want to think about it."
"You probably should, it isn't healthy to bottle things up."
It isn't healthy to enact revenge either.
"It sucks, what else can I say?"
"Really, I think you should talk about it. It helps, like a lot."
"Why do you care?" you laugh but it's nothing except tense. Accusing.
Robin removes the beanie from her head and wrings it between her lithe hands, "'Cuz I know what it’s like. To get betrayed like that.”
“How would you?”
She pauses and you turn, her brows are furrowed and she looks prepared to yarf up her dinner, "You don’t remember at all?”
You blink once. Twice. Stupidly.
Robin breathes heavy, folding her arms, "We used to be friends, you know? In fifth grade. I told you I liked girls at a sleepover and you just… stopped hanging out with me," her eyes widen in show of her disappointment, "And then got super popular."
"Oh my God," you feel shame and dread tighten at your nerves, "I'm so sorry, Robin, I- I don't know why I did that. And I'm so, so sorry I didn't remember. That's so awful."
"I mean," she's shockingly understanding for someone so wronged, "I forgive you. I forgot what I had for dinner just a few hours ago. But if you're so inclined, you can make it up to me by actually opening up."
"What can I say?" you hug yourself, eyes drifting down, "It's terrible. Every day. People I thought were my best friends just lied and abandoned me for dead."
The tears finally cradle your face and Robin steps forward, taking you carefully in her arms. You latch to her, hands winding tight in her black shirt.
"They all got off free and I lost everything. And I have Saturday detention tomorrow with a teacher that just sleeps the whole time," you sputter a laugh, face warm against Robin’s, "I really, really hate that senior year is looking so shit right now."
"I hope revenge is sweet, at least."
You're silent for a moment. Pondering. You nod, beaming, "It is."
Something rattles in a nearby trash can and Robin pulls from the embrace, though her hand continues to hold yours.
"We should probably go get warm before we catch something. And before whatever is in the garbage bites us- " she's walking, dragging you by the hand, before you even get to reply, "I have a fear of rabies, actually."
"Seriously?"
"Hey, you ever seen Cujo? That shit is real, it takes over your mind."
"Yeah, I'm sure," you squeeze her hand playfully, "Totally not insane."
"It isn't," she stresses, though even that front cracks into sprinkles of laughter, "I'm totally justified, everyone else is just insane."
"Of course."
"For real!"
"Never said I didn't believe you."
The trek home is tedious and rainy, but Robin makes it easier to swallow. Like sugar to cough syrup. Or whatever Mary Poppins said.
Your final Saturday detention and Ms. Click is already head back, open-mouthed, freight train snoring asleep. You almost wish there was a princess, basket case, nerd, criminal, and jock there to save you from such unending boredom. And despite being schlucked into such an unforgivingly plain and exhausting field, you feel better than you did the first time. Maybe it's because this is your last one. Maybe it's because Robin promised to pick you up afterwards.
Either way, you feel better now.
Eased and content, at the very least. Willing to let things go as they are, even if the only two left on your revenge roster are the main villains. It most certainly helps that Robin seems to enjoy being around you as much as you do her.
A knock clouds the glass of Ms. Click’s classroom. Your attention snaps and you see Robin Buckley, the woman of your hour, waving you over excitedly. She points over her shoulder at the bike she’d obviously ridden over. It’s castleton green with purple tassels on either handle - very loved, very mud splattered from years of use. You look at her like she’s insane - as far as you know, she genuinely might be - and she just continues to wave and point to her bike with the basket on it.
You rise from your seat, a glance from Ms. Clink’s stone cold knocked out position to the clock, then take great care in mouthing “theater”.
Robin meets you by the double doors at the side of the school - foolishly left open and unlocked.
“I have to be back at three, you know?”
She hooks a flanneled arm through the crook of your elbow and lugs you forward, toward her bike, “You’ll be safe and in your seat by 2:50, at the latest. And that’s a coveted Buckley Swear,” she puts up three fingers, as though a proudly honored boy scout.
The ride from school to the local replacement diner for Benny’s - Johanna’s (a cheap imitation, though the fries are truly award-worthy) - isn’t more than five minutes. Robin is such a slow biker, taking every handful of seconds to chat at a stop, that it soaks up seven minutes of your brief freedom.
Leather sticks to your skin from the booth, but your company is simply to die for.
“You know, I should’ve known something was off with Andy when all he could say about me was that I was pretty.”
Robin icks, sticking out her tongue at the man’s name, “There’s no way he and his friends are part of the men Dolly Parton’s begging Jolene to spare.”
“I know, I once got told that he cheated on a girl at a party when she was literally in the other room,” rethinking it, your entire time with Andy was a sign that he was everything but a decent guy, not that your rose-colored glasses could see red flags. They always just looked like plain old flags, “But I think I’m better now. I used to be nice, but it wasn’t really me. I changed everything about myself and those assholes were never satisfied.”
Robin grabs your hand, hidden behind the red plastic baskets that your meals were carried out in, “You’re still pretty nice now.”
You don’t know if you believe her, but the way she bats her lashes and simpers from fruity ripe and flower-pink lips just might convince you.
Robin rubs a tender thumb over your knuckles and speaks again, “Wanna know something?” you hum, popping one of Johanna’s to-die-for fries in your mouth, “Beethoven wrote Für Elise for a lady, and he wanted her to be able to play something easy, but impressive,” she snags a bite from her burger, holding up a finger as she chews, “But when he found out she was engaged, he made the other parts so complicated that she’d never be able to play it.”
Taking a sip of cola, you shake your head, “I don’t think that’s true.”
“I don’t either,” she snickers, “but I wanted you to feel better about our revenge agenda.”
“Well, I feel fine, thank you.”
“Here, I’ll tell you three truths about me - as an apology.”
Unnecessary, but you don’t plan on fighting her - not when you like the sound of her thin rasp as she talks.
“I was told to never say food tastes bad, so I would say ‘unlucky’. I once cracked my neck and then my nose started bleeding. Once when I was checking out a couple customers at Family Video, their toddler kept saying ‘fuck’ until they left.”
“Thank you,” you tilt your head, “It sounds like you lead a very interesting life.”
“Hm, yes, I went from outcast dork to protecting the world from a gloop monster and Russians with two of the most popular kids from school and then helping the fallen Hawkins princess get revenge on the new most popular kids in school,” she ponders, stark silent for just a second, “I actually have the most boring life imaginable.”
Nodding, you stand and smooth out your skirt, “Yeah, actually, sounds like it. I’ll be in the bathroom, don’t have too much fun without me.”
“Impossible.”
When you return from the eventful fun of the Johanna’s bathroom run, you spot two towheaded nerds dazzled in varsity jackets. They taint the marron-stained edge of your table, hands in their pockets as they talk down to Robin.
It makes you ill, the way they so easily spit up on the only person at Hawkins High to make you forget about that stupid May of ‘85.
“Why’re you obsessed with her all of the sudden?”
Jason should mind his business, you think.
Robin doesn’t speak. It’d be bizarre if the two were more welcoming.
“We both know what you’re doing,” Jason leans down, hands flat on the table and his gaze piercing through her freckled cheeks, “and I hope you know that the only reason we haven’t done anything is because of Chrissy and Patrick.”
“If you’re trying to scrape the remains of her popularity, you’re pathetic,” Andy tilts his head, she liked it more when you did it, “A reject.”
Robin takes it quiet, eyes straight ahead and hands folded across her lap, because she wants them gone as soon as possible so that you don’t have to deal with either of them. You do see them, though, and you decide to deal with them.
“Get the hell out of here,” you’ve grown since the beginning of the year - something more confrontational, “What do you two think you’re doing? There’s no glory holes here, so you’re both out of luck.”
Andy shucks your shoulder with his as he passes, Jason steps on your shoe, and both glare. Deadly and thin and built with all the spite that one could handle.
You thought you could change your mind, really you did. But you watch the evil wrapped in loose, folding jackets leave through sliding automatic doors, and you feel a wickedness crawl the length of your spine.
They just chose the worst way to get you off their back. Now you’re coming back. Like fucking lice - you’ll come right back with immunity to all their potions and charms.
You grab Robin by the elbow, continuing to glare out the windows. You imagine that they’d be set ablaze if it were possible. Robin shudders under the hatred you radiate.
“We have to come up with something totally fucked up for the ringleaders of Hawkins High,” your faze turns down to Robin, blazing, “We have to ruin their lives.”
She grins lopsided, brows raising, “I’m kinda scared but really interested, is that bad?”
“Not particularly.”
Hawkins Highs opens approximately thirty minutes before seven o'clock, depending on who's working that morning. You and Robin meet at the unlocked double doors five minutes before seven - when the football team arrives for their daily congregation. You're digging into your (dated) bell-bottom pants' pockets while Robin is elbow-deep in her backpack.
She nudges her head towards your hip, "How much did he charge you?”
"Not a cent,” you beam, braggy and bright, “Mr. Munson was more than glad to donate to a worthy cause.”
"Lucky," Robin grumbles, faux glare as she pulls out the neck of a communion wine bottle, "I almost shit myself fifteen times trying to get this stupid wine.”
"Sorry, sorry," you crack open the combination of Andy's locker and slip in the weed and one bottle of communion wine.
Next to that, you plant a bright pink paper slip. A bland secret admirer's note asking him to meet in the AV room as soon as he reads it. He'd be a fool to fall for it, but thankfully - a jester is exactly who you're dealing with.
Robin hands you the second wine bottle, shaky and splashy in her unnerved hands, "Are you sure about this?”
"Nope," you tuck the bottle under your shirt, as if it isn't still entirely obvious, "but it isn’t like I can find another way to ensure this asshole never comes back.”
Robin bites down her protests, fiddling with the edge of her frayed sleeve. And she holds those protests down as Andy finds his way into the AV room at 7:08 AM. She slides the lock shut behind him and hurries down the echoing hall towards the office.
The projector is flickering, but most certainly on. Andy can't sense it nor see it, but you're ducking behind the control panel. A single bottle of red clutched tight between your fingers.
Bumbling, you play the film reel loaded into the projector and hold your breath as your voice comes down from the speakers.
"Are you seriously recording this?"
"It's something to commemorate, baby."
A shaky, grainy image of you and Andy, side by side on one of his father’s pews, lights the projector. The camera flips and Claire’s beaming face comes alive. That night was the night that you three promised to stay together forever, seeing each other every break during college.
“I’ll be too busy being a star football player,” Andy insisted.
Claire joked that you two will have to frame him for steroid possession. You called her intense. She called you a sourpuss.
“Oh,” Andy laughs in real time with his video counterpart, “you’re pathetic.”
You feel it.
“Okay, you know what?” he creeps past the control panel you hide under, a hand thunking to the door handle and he pulls, “I’m going.”
His body leans fully, but the door doesn’t budge - he laughs, twisted and sick.
“Let me out,” when you fail to respond, he bangs on the door and you think the walls reverberate, “Let me out! You can’t keep me in here!”
You lay the bottle of communion wine and roll it down the gentle slope to the doorway. The glass smooths loudly along the floor and Andy sweats at the sound, he jumps shamefully when it bumps his sneaker.
Nervously, you peek up and flounder for the volume knob, turning it higher.
“You’re a bitch, and a fuckin’ coward!”
You crank the volume even higher.
“I could never actually ditch you. Either of you.”
His own words scathe him. Betray his wickedness for the both of you to pick apart like vultures to decay. He inspects the back rows for a body, closer and louder, heavier and thicker.
Before Andy gets the satisfaction of finding you, you pop out from beneath the panel - twisting the volume knob even higher. He turns on his planted feat and you watch his nostrils flare, face red and full of hate, “You fucking bitch!”
He charges forward and you refuse to run. Not when his rage was so accounted for.
Robin, meanwhile, puts on her best acting face from amateur freshman and (half of) sophomore year theater in countering to Ms. Kelley’s promise that if she was lying about the contraband in Andy’s locker - she’d be suspended. She twiddles her fingers and shakes her head, “No, I’m not exactly nervous about that…”
Higgins props open Andy’s locker and Robin mocks a gasp as a bottle of wine and a baggie of Eddie’s cream of the illegal crop are visibly at the forefront.
Kelley side eyes Robin, “Why are you nervous then?”
“Well, he was meeting someone in the AV room. That… girl that kicked him in the balls last year? She wanted to meet him, to apologize I think.”
Higgins and Kelley share a glance. Long enough for the social fear of teenagers and weed to lead their conclusions somewhere dark. Not that Robin exactly thinks Andy needed help with being seen as a dickhead.
You barely manage to dodge the wine bottle he throws, it smashes against the control panel and grape nectar rolls down the plastic lining until it stains the carpet. Glass rains near your feet and while you’re focused on not stepping on any, Andy grabs you by the shoulders.
His grip is tight, you think he might leave a bruise, “Why can’t you let this go, you fucking psycho? You gonna terrorize for the rest of high school? College? That’s pathetic.”
It’s hard to believe you were ever into him, “You people ruined my fucking life! Would you leave it alone if someone did that to you?!”
He tuts and grabs you by the collar, lifting you just slightly, “Guess I don’t have to find out, do I, whore?”
You were called that a lot. Men. Women. Young. Old. Familiar. Stranger. All because of a lie. All because of him.
Distant footsteps hang from the hallway and the door’s lock slicks back just as your video ends. Then more steps echo from behind the door, hot in their approach and Robin’s faint voice pipes up.
You tilt your head in faux innocence, “Don’t you?”
“What?”
You scream, something horrified and wretched, and the door swings open with a fury. Your throat burns when you’re done.
Kelley and Higgins smell the wine first. Then see the sparkling remains of a bottle splattered across the floor. Then the way his fingers are coiled into the collar of your shirt.
“Mr. Johnson,” Kelly snaps and he drops you, you fall helplessly, cutting your palm on the glass, “My office. Now!”
Higgins rushes to you, his smooth hands assisting you up as Robin carefully steps up from the background.
“I can take her to nurse, principal Higgins,” you find yourself more comfortable leaning on her tall frame, “While you deal with, you know- “ she eyes the doorway, where Andy is screaming about a setup and lies.
You two begin towards the nurse’s office and Robin doesn’t mention that you got blood on the side of her white shirt. She also doesn’t mention that you don’t technically have to be using her as support to walk, but that’s also for her own self-interest.
“That was equal parts psycho and stupid,” Robin looks at you, a brow raised, “You know that, right?”
“Of course,” you grin back, “It was worth it though. He’s gone and his dad is in hot water, at least for a bit.”
“You’re so dumb sometimes,” you two pause in the hall.
An electricity runs there. Right between you. It makes you screw your arms under hers, and she squeezes you just as tight. And it's as you hug Robin in that barren hallway, you remember, “Oh, shit, I left the video in there.”
“What’re you gonna do with it?” she pulls back, arms loose and limply thrown over your shoulders.
Her lips are tantalizing. That same apple - that same tree - that same snake.
“I dunno…” you shrug, hands roaming down to settle on her hips, “Wanna burn it with me?”
She ponders and you like how she likes your hands on her body, “Yeah. Actually. I’ve never burned film before.”
“It’s nothing big.”
“Sounds exciting, though.”
“Someone could really get hurt,” Jason gestures down to your bandaged hand and you cup it defensively to your chest.
You glare and you feel like hell itself clutches you by the cheeks as he talks, “Jason, you turned me into a social pariah just because you could, if I let you go before actually beating the shit out of you - consider it lucky.”
“You’re a psycho,” he looks around the band practice room that he dragged you into, “And this place smells like cat piss.”
“‘84 accident,” you deadpan, pushing him back by the chest when he attempts to strike past you to the door, “Wait.”
And now you’re pacing nervously across the fuzzy pink rug in front of Robin’s twin-sized mattress, freshly finished with your retelling of such a tale.
“I know what I want done, but I don’t know how we do it,” you pause before her.
“Well, what do you want done?” Robin moves to the edge of her bed, she looks at you like you’ve hung the moon - like you’re worthy of something, “I’ll do it. Trust me.”
“My hero,” you sit on her bed, the way you land making you straddle one of her thighs. You wrap your arms around her neck, “What would I ever do without you?”
“Be without your totally awesome revenge, probably.”
“Definitely,” you giggle and she returns the gesture in kind, “I want to record Jason admitting to everything. He’s meeting me at the Hawkins Elementary playground at 10 PM.”
“Let’s start simple,” Robin’s hands fall to your hips now, and maybe if you were brave you’d admit to yourselves what that meant, “We need a camera.”
You get a camera from Jonathan Byers.
“My mom’s old boyfriend left that, so…” he waves a hand about, looking more exhausted than pleased at the conversation, “Why do you guys need it anyway?”
You and Robin share a pointed look, her frosty blue fingertips tip-tap along the side of the camera patiently. You take a deep breath and fold your arms, “We need it to film Jason Carver admitting that he knew Andy was lying about the whole Enzo’s bathroom blowjob thing and that he turned my old friends against me. Then we’re gonna play it at homecoming tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Jonathan nods sluggishly, hands burrowing into his pockets, “Just, uh, don’t break it.”
And the filming location is scoped by the both of you later - a very bizarre and peculiar experience, being two teenagers perusing the local elementary school playground for a good filming angle.
Robin finishes her rig from behind the tire swing tree beside the real swing set, peering through the viewfinder to ensure that she has a full scene of you and, theoretically, where Jason would be.
“What now?” she steps out from behind the tree, all limb and lank and affection.
“Now,” you grab the camera and delicately hold it, “we buy Hawkins home pride for homecoming tomorrow.”
“Ugh, gross.”
“Whatever,” you roll your eyes good-naturedly and grab her by the hand, entwining your fingers, “think of it as a costume change before the big villain exposition.”
Undershirts hung over either arm, you wade through the skirts’ section with Robin. Two Hawkins High jerseys with Jason Carver’s number over the chest in bold white that you’d forgotten to toss out.
Robin ‘ooh’s and plucks a hanger from the section excitedly, shoving it right before your face. It’s pleated, green with white lining at the bottom - she then holds it beside the shorts she’d picked up for herself, split down the middle, half orange and half green.
“I think this is the final piece,” she nods assuredly, “This is perfect.”
“We still need to try everything on,” you grin as she groans and tucks the skirt into your grasp, “But yes, this is perfect.”
You step out of your respective dressing rooms in tandem, you clutch the strawberry fabrics between both hands and Robin feels her heart jump to her throat. You’ve got a green scrunchie around your wrist and cheesy orange sunglasses on your head - mirroring her own green headband.
Robin looks both ways down the hall and steps into the gray carpet wonderland that separates your rooms. She sighs ragged, pulling the straps of her white tank top closer to her neck, “I feel silly.”
“Me too,” you nod and drop the curtains as you come toe-to-toe with Robin, “but it’s dramatic as hell,” you reach up and remove the emerald headband, shaking it free from clinging, sun-bleached hairs. Pulling out her bangs, you settle the band behind her hanging strands, “You also look hot, so bonus.”
“Yeah, bonus,” she watches your lips, mostly.
It feels safe with you. Not in the way it usually feels safe with people she knows, but it feels like if she were to jump off a cliff then you would put a mega marshmallow bed for her to land on. Maybe it’s because she knows you like girls, too. Maybe it’s because you two are friends now, like officially. Maybe you’ve bewitched her.
“You look hot, too,” she swallows, dry and uneasy.
“Yeah?” you tease, stepping back and pulling loosely on the scrunchie snug around your wrist.
“God,” she plays off any desperation as a laugh, “yes.”
Dear God, yes. And it seems to be all she can think about when you’re driving her home in your candied Audi. Robin has had crushes before - Tammy Thompson and Vickie McNulty, to name a few tangible ones (Brooke Shields, Daryl Hannah, and Lisa Bonet, to name a few intangible ones). But they’ve never consumed her so thoroughly before.
She’s never smelt their perfume on her clothes after school and almost screamed (lovingly). She’s also never had cheesy inner monologues about how beautiful and fun they were.
But you’re just that incredible, she supposes.
She understands, now, your thought process in fifth grade. Or at least, she can get an idea. You must’ve been scared - for God’s sake it was only 1978 and David Bowie hadn’t exactly turned tides against bigotry. And now you’ve apologized. She feels better.
She circles back.
She’s had crushes that didn’t swallow her how you do. Does she…?
Honestly, it would be the least surprising thing to happen in her life so far.
Though, that realization makes her startle at the way you glance over, “What’re you staring at, huh, Buckley?”
“Nothing,” her head snaps forward, tossing back into the passenger side rest.
“Anything you wanna tell me? You look sick.”
“No,” she drags the vowels and you don’t believe her for a second.
But as soon as you’ve dropped her off at her house, you realize you can’t wait to see her again. In the way you used to impatiently wait to meet with Andy, but Robin would never do what he did. Robin is kind and trustworthy and you might just like her.
You most definitely do. And that’s a pill you have to swallow dry so that you can hurry home to prepare for ten o’clock that night.
At ten o’clock that night, you rock gently on the Hawkins Elementary swingset in the pink and white pinstriped dress you wore to Enzo’s on that spring date with the man to ruin your high school reputation.
“Could you be any more dramatic?” Jason has his hands buried in the pockets of his varsity jacket. A powerplay of his own, not that he’d ever admit it.
Looking up in an act of thinking, you hum before sneering, “This is way more fun.”
He rolls his eyes at you, “Anybody follow you here?”
“Not a soul.”
“You’re losing your mind with all this crazy revenge shit you’ve been doing,” he moves closer and you have to stand from the swingset to maintain a semblance of power balance.
“This isn’t even half of it,” you wring your fingers tighter around the iron-scented chains, “You people wanted an outcast, but I don’t think you realized what little an outcast has to lose. Unless, you know, you can go ahead and admit it now.”
“Fine,” he swings his hands out at his sides, “Everyone in the group knew Andy was lying through his teeth. Are you happy?”
“No,” you release the swingset chains and step closer to him, your shoes scuffing his white soles, “How did you convince my friends to turn against me?”
“I didn’t do anything,” he shrugs, “You kicked Andy in the balls and I made them matter,” he laughs and you want nothing more than to throttle him where he stands, “When you’ve got the entire pigsty, parasite, Podunk population of Hawkins High eating out of your palm - people don’t tend to turn their backs on you,” he reaches up and ghosts his fingertips along your cheek, “Unlike the whore that publicly assaulted Hawkins’ golden boy’s best friend.”
You feel the back of your throat burn.
Jason bends down and you want to jump away as his jacket brushes your legs, he picks up the bag at your feet.
“If I play these, and they’re fakes, you’re dead,” he points down the barrel of your face. You feel sick, like he’s stabbing you straight through the throat, “If you tell anybody about this, you’re dead,” he laughs and finally steps back, “Or, hey, maybe I’ll just tell everyone you tried humping my leg like a dog in heat.”
Jason looks into the bag and grins when he spots two cassette tapes. You roll your eyes at his jovial behavior.
He snaps, “Don’t roll your eyes at me, whore.”
Hawkins’ golden boy finally retreats back to his 1984 Jeep Cherokee and you wait until the thing is off property before beaming and turning to the tree with the tire swing.
“Did you get it?”
Robin pops out from behind and gives you a thumbs-up as she wrangles the camera down from its spot in the branches.
Honestly, it’s like the meathead never heard of making tape copies.
The next day, you stroll into Hawkins High for the pep rally with your film reel and confession tapes - decked in the tacky costumes you bought and tried on together. You feel pride and excitement bloom as Robin brushes through the tiled hallways with you at her side. You part at the AV room, with Robin going to jingle the projector to the gym while you sneak into the front office.
“Hey,” she catches you by the wrist, her lips gently tipping up at the sight of you.
“Hey,” you slide your hand up to entwine your fingers with hers, “Everything okay?”
Robin takes a deep breath, “I just…” she looks down and you tilt her head up by the chin, “Even if none of this goes well, I want you to know that I’ve had a lot of fun,” she thinks your lips would taste like the fruity lip balm you’re always wearing, “And I still wanna… be friends, when this is all over.”
Something about the way she hesitates in the title of friends elates you. But then again, being limited to that title burns. And you’ve turned into someone who isn’t satisfied keeping her thoughts to herself.
“Friends?”
Robin shrugs, “Yeah.”
“No more?” you realize the question as Robin gasps, you slap a hand over your mouth, “Sorry!”
“No, more,” she grabs the hand over your mouth and holds that one, too, “Yeah. More,” that nervous little raspy giggle you love peeks through and another wave of excitement gleans below your ribs, “More is good.”
You two share school girlish giggle and squeeze hands and you check both ends of the hallway for any sign of life. When you find none, you lean forward and give her a taste of the fruity lip balm she can always smell from the passenger seat of your car.
The apple is sweet and slightly chapped, and you think you love it.
There’s a twisted hesitance as you pull apart, you grin at her heavy blush and brush her hair back behind her gem-studded ear.
Kissing her cheek, you pull away slowly and it aches to leave her behind.
“Good luck, Buck,” she cringes, nose wrinkling and openly gagging, and you only laugh at her disgust, “Don’t get caught!”
You kneel at the announcement office door, your decade-old library card slithering between the crack in the door. It pops open and you sneak inside, hooking your cassette into the player for the PA system just as the walkie-talkie stuffing into the waistband of your skirt buzzes.
Muffled whispers attempt to blurt through your jersey.
You slip the walkie-talkie up to your ear, catching the tail end of Lucas’ whispering.
A click of the button and you’re speaking into the walkie, “Hey, sweet Sinclair, I’m gonna need you to repeat that.”
This time you catch the end of a thick sigh before he whispers, “Everyone’s in the auditorium and Jason is about to make his speech - so whatever you’ve got planned, you better hurry up.”
“Got it, captain, hang tight,” you flip to the channel you and Robin settled upon before school, “Did you get the scoop from Lucas?”
“Sure did. Projector’s all set up, too, and I’m under the bleachers.”
“Great,” you slip the walkie-talkie back into your skirt waistband and giggly press down on the siren engine red play button on the PA system.
And Patrick McKinney’s voice echoes through the hallways.
Robin pokes her face into the bleachers’ gap, she sees Patrick shy from the attention. Shrugging off his varsity jacket and bringing it up and over his head as he ducks down. Higgins runs off the stage and Kelley attempts calling to the masses through a microphone - it fails. And fails harder when the voice of Chrissy Cunningham autoplays next.
Chrissy leans down, whispering - hissing, rather - for her friends to hide her.
Meanwhile, at the office, you can hear heavy footsteps from the hall and manage to creep under the desk just as Higgins kicks in the door. He swiftly cuts around the desk and you squeeze under the desk’s high gap as the tape cuts off on its own. He rips out the cassette and turns it for a label or name while you crawl away and out the door.
Robin clicks on the film projector from between the bleacher slats and she watches Jason look back from beside Kelley when his own voice rings in the auditorium.
He sees himself, and you, by the Hawkins Elementary swingset.
“What the fuck?”
Kelley jaw drops at his language and smacks him on the arm.
There’s a collective shock as Jason bites himself in the ass.
“When you’ve got the entire pigsty, parasite, Podunk population of Hawkins High eating out of your palm - people don’t tend to turn their backs on you. Unlike the whore that publicly assaulted Hawkins’ golden boy’s best friend.”
Kelley stumbles away, her brown heels clicking on the stage as she tries to distance herself from the king being beheaded.
You shove the double doors to the auditorium open and heads swivel to where you stand as Jason Carver from the projection gets close to your face, clutching a bag in hand, and spits a, “Don’t roll your eyes at me, whore,” after threatening your life.
Eyes turn back to Jason. Judgment. Curiosity. Confliction. It can’t be real, but they’ve seen it before their eyes. Like rubbernecking a car accident. Your downfall, meticulously crafted and carried out and now you finally get to witness it being repaid in full. Chrissy and Patrick huddle into their own covers as people slowly turn against them. Claire shrinks into herself and ignores the sweat that begins along the back of her neck as cheerleaders and peers stare.
Jason is frozen, eyes piercing where his own damnation featured for the entire present population of Hawkins High. Including counselor Kelley.
She grabs him by the arm with the vice grip of an anaconda, dragging him back and behind the velvet curtains - all the way down the stage stairs that you and Robin sprawled down after pouring spiders on his girlfriend. You go to climb the bleachers, stunned when a hand grabs you by the arm.
A girl you don’t quite recognize with chili red glasses grins and holds you up as you climb the middle stairs. A boy with braces helps on your other side.
Freshmen to seniors, men to women, band geeks to varsity jocks, you are assisted up the bleachers until you’re finally plopped onto the cold, smooth, cornstarch-scented seat beside Lucas Sinclair. He claps you on the back, beaming with all the relief of a boy who’s watched G.I Joe escape yet another perilous situation.
“Congratulations on a good show.”
You shrug off the praise, “Oh, you know me. A natural.”
Higgins wanders in, then, and beckons you down. Cheerleaders and mathletes assist you down and ensure you don’t stumble between the bleacher gaps. You feel a flick to your ankle and glance back in time to see Robin peeking there, she smiles lopsidedly and waves. You wave back as Higgins’ turns away to lead you to his office.
Higgins sits stern across from you, hands folded as Kelley’s were on that last day of junior year.
“There’s no evidence I violated school policy because why would I?” you laugh humorlessly, “I mean, why would I go out of my way to surround myself with the people that tried ruining my life?”
He looks away from you. You both know you’re lying through your teeth. Why the hell would you be in that video if you had nothing to do with the scheme? And where would you have been during the pep rally? And who else would be so invested in your Luciferian style fall from grace to act entirely on their own?
But can he bring himself to truly do anything now? When you’ve proven the space between the horse’s teeth is full of lies?
Higgins’ chocolate drop eyes abandon you in favor of the records file at his side.
“Alright,” he sighs, tightens his tie, and leans back until his office chair creaks, “you’re free to go, but we’re going to keep a close eye on you, young lady.”
You bright and clasp both hands in your lap, spine shooting straight, “I’d expect nothing less from Hawkins’ finest, Mr. Higgins.”
Once again, both of you know that you’re lying through your teeth.
But so is he.
“Off the record,” he leans forward and the chair groans again, “did you do it?”
Higgins believes himself to be the kindly, understanding principal, but you feel jaded. Wiser and older, even if you’ve only matured by a fraction.
“Nope!”
“So, who did?” whether this interaction is truly as off the books as he claims, he’s definitely trying to goad you into an answer.
“Who knows?” you sigh, histrionic, as your back hits the chair’s cushion, “Maybe some… super vigilante that thought some justice was needed.”
“What? Like Batman?”
You think for a moment. You aren’t quite as comically rich, nor are you so brooding, and perhaps you’re stroking your own ego now - but there is a sense of just performance. Like you’ve done something right.
“Yeah. Like Batman.”
Robin waits outside for you. She’s leaned against the wall and it brightens the dim space. You don’t even notice the others until she nudges her head to the side and says, “You got a couple visitors.”
Chrissy, Claire, and Patrick are standing ashamed and knobby-kneed.
Claire steps forward, one hand nervously twirling a dark curl around her finger, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
Onyx eyes that jade like honey pots in sunshine water and wilt, her cheeks wet with tears and Patrick nods, laying a hand on her shoulder. He wets his lips and sighs like he was somehow hurt.
Truly hurt.
“We just got caught up in Jason and his need for us to play specific parts. You… you know how it is.”
You most assuredly do.
You wish Robin wasn’t shying away from you. You hate that it's their fault.
Chrissy clinks her fingernails together, “You should come back. We miss you.”
“We all miss you,” and you know Claire isn’t lying as she says that.
You know none of them are, but you look at Robin as she nervously gnaws her bottom lip. They wronged her deeply as they did you - even if you could forgive them for yourself, you can’t find it within you to ignore how they hurt her. And again, you can’t actually feel yourself ready - or prepared - to forgive and forget for your own sake.
“Nah,” you smile as you grab Robin by the hand and turn towards the side doors of the school.
Chrissy and Claire go to protest. You can hear Patrick’s sneakers squeak against the dirt-smeared corridor floor. And you pay them no mind as you commit to skipping the rest of the school day with (you hope) your new girlfriend.
“Higgins inadvertently called us Batman,” you unlock your car and open the door for Robin as she ducks in.
She hums, nodding, as you climb into the driver’s seat, “If you’re Batman can I be Catwoman?”
“Don’t they fight each other?”
“Yeah, but I don’t wanna be that Robin. He’s like twelve.”
“Then let’s just both be Batman,” you wait until you’ve both clipped in your seatbelts before pulling out of the student parking lot.
Robin settles her head back against the passenger seat rest, rolling until her ear hits the cushion and she stares as you steer - utterly helpless and enamored, “Do you think we’ll ever have to do this again?”
“Hm,” you make it out of the Hawkins High gate and roll down the street, entirely calmer than when you had to get driven home by Eddie Munson, “maybe a first date is in order first. Then maybe we can do more revenge. Be women of the people and all that shit.”
“I’d love to,” Robin laces her hands together and you notice, holding a hand out over the center console for her to hold, “I’m not happy you got outcasted and lied about, but I am glad that we met.”
“Me too, Rob,” you pause completely at a stop sign and lean across the gap between you two to lay another precious kiss to her lips - she eagerly returns the affection, “Now, I don’t believe we ever got to properly finish our meal at Johanna’s. And I’m simply starving.”
Her nose crinkles as she laughs and you don’t know if you could ever get enough of the sight or sound or feeling of her. She nods and pecks your lips again, “I could eat.”
#robin buckley x reader#robin buckley x you#robin buckley oneshot#robin buckley#robin x reader#robin stranger things#stranger things x reader#stranger things x you#stranger things fic#robin buckley fluff#robin buckley fic#robin.🍍
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WOKE politicians 'support gay CONVERSION therapy' as confused kids 'fast-tracked to STERILISATION'
Andrew Doyle: On Friday there was a heated debate in the House of Commons about conversion therapy. Emotions ran high and few were more impassioned than the conservative MP Alicia Kearns who berated Alba MP Neil Hanvey for appealing on behalf of the LGB community.
So, here's how that exchange went.
Hanvey: People in the LGB community are often referred to as bigots and transphobes and other slurs just because we have concerns about legislation such of this. And we want to make sure that young LGB people are protected. And trans people. Does she agree with me that that must apply, that rule must apply, to all sides of any debate and not just one side that she favors.
Kearns: ... absolutely right, but there was one digit missing from his LGB: LGBT. We do not divide the LGBT community in this place. You can say that you have concerns about we doing. But by removing the T, you are suggesting that transgender people do not exist. You are suggesting they are lesser than other LGB people. And I will not stand for that, because it was trans people who stood with gay people at Stonewall. It was trans people who fought alongside for LGBT rights. So, when you say LGBT, when you remove the T, you suggest that they are lesser.
Doyle: Now it's clear to me that Alicia Kearns is well intentioned and sincere, and I mean no disrespect when I say that this is a subject about which she clearly knows very little. And that is dangerous, because if she gets her way on this issue, it will set back gay rights by decades.
So, let's address some of the key misconceptions. So, firstly, Kearns claimed that Hanvey was suggesting that transgender people don't exist, and at no point did he make such a claim. Sexual orientation and the belief in gender identity are totally unrelated concepts. Kearns seems to be suggesting that gay people have no right to campaign for their interests unless they simultaneously campaign for trans people. But why? Groups such as Mermaids campaign solely for trans rights. Are they therefore homophobic? Perhaps Alicia Kerns would like to berate them in Parliament. I look forward to seeing that.
Kearns went on to say that it was trans people who stood with the gays at Stonewall. Trans people fought together for LGB rights. Did they? I mean there were some trans people involved in the struggle for gay rights, certainly. But not all that many. The activists who changed history for the better were predominantly lesbians and gay men. At the Stonewall Inn, it was mostly gay men with some lesbians and drag queens who were involved in the riots. And it was likely a lesbian, Stormé DeLarverie, who sparked the whole thing. After the police raided the bar, she was being forcibly arrested and is said to have shouted to the crowd, aren't you going to do something?
Now, some trans activists have since attempted to rewrite history, claiming that a transwoman called Marsha P. Johnson threw the first brick at the Stonewall Inn. The trouble is, Marsha P. Johnson wasn't trans. He was a drag queen. And he wasn't even there when the rioting started.
Now, if Alicia Kearns wants to know about the actual history of Stonewall, not the revisionist fabrications of activists, she could read "Stonewall: The Riots That Sparked the Gay Revolution," by David Carter. Or, she could talk to someone who was actually there, such as the gay rights veteran Fred Sargeant.
Now let's talk about the confusion that's at the heart of this parliamentary debate. What exactly is conversion therapy? A YouGov poll last year revealed that 65% of voters believe that gay conversion therapy ought to be banned, and 62% feel the same about "trans conversion therapy." And this would suggest that most voters do not recognize the difference between the two, and nor do many politicians. Now this photograph was taken in Westminster Hall. A cross-party collective of dozens of MPs with a placard that reads, "I support a trans inclusive ban." The image was posted on Twitter by Laboir MP from Nottingham East, Nadia Whittome.
In truth, and without realizing it, the these politicians are supporting a new form of gay conversion therapy, something that most of us thought would be consigned to the history books by this point. When we hear that phrase, "conversion therapy," most of our minds leap to a variety of horrific practices. So, in America, Christian fundamentalists have established programs to address the "problem" of homosexuality, there are camps where young people can "pray the gay away." Which I suppose is at least a step forward from brain surgery, castration and the kind of electric shock treatment favoured by scientific practitioners in the 20th century, or the corrective rape of lesbians to "cure" them of homosexual tendencies that still goes on in some countries.
Such practices are of course already illegal in the UK. So, why the need for a conversion therapy ban? Well, what's happening is there is a conflation of sexual orientation and gender identity and this is why so many are confused. In her book, "Time to Think," Hannah Barnes revealed that between 80 to 90% of adolescents who were referred to the Tavistock pediatric gender clinic were same-sex attracted. We've known for a long time there's a strong correlation between gender nonconformity in youth and being gay in adult life. Members at the Tavistock itself joked that, "soon there would be no gay people left." Whistleblowers revealed that homophobia was endemic. In other words, children who are likely to grow up gay are being "fixed" by medical practitioners to better conform with stereotypical heterosexual paradigms.
Barnes's research shows that the Tavistock clinic -- and this is a quote -- "ignored evidence that 97.5% of children seeking sex changes had autism, depression or other problems that might have explained their unhappiness." They are only 2% of the country's children that suffer from an autistic spectrum disorder, so why is it that 35% of referrals to the Tavistock fit into that category?
in almost all instances, children who are prescribed puberty blockers go on to cross- sex hormones, which in some cases leads to irreversible surgery. We're dealing here, overwhelmingly, with gay and autistic children fast-tracked onto a pathway to sterilization. This is what MPs such as Lloyd Russell-Moyle and Alicia Kearns and Keir Starmer are supporting. Whether they realize it or not.
Now, thankfully, more and more people are waking up to the scale of this problem. So, recently the equalities Minister Kemi Badenoch wrote to the Commons Women and Equality Select Committee about her discussions with former clinicians at the Tavistock. And the conclusion? So-called gender affirmative care amounts to what she described as, "conversion therapy for gay kids." And crucially, she cited a survey of detransitioners -- these are people who have been pressurized into transitioning and they later regret it -- in which 23% of respondents put their determination to transition down to experiences of homophobia.
Badenoch quoted a gender clinic in Germany. They said, "it must be understood that early hormone therapy may interfere with the patient's development as a homosexual. This may not be in the interests of patients who, as a result of hormone therapy, can no longer have the decisive experiences that enable them to establish a homosexual identity."
It is profoundly disturbing that Starmer's Labour party is now officially supporting gay conversion therapy in the form of a ban on "trans-inclusive conversion therapy," and that he's gaining cross-party support. Now, a charitable interpretation is that Starmer, Kearns, Russell-Moyle, Whittome, all the other MPs who are supporting this, simply do not understand that they are advancing dangerously anti-gay proposals. They are supporting the new Section 28. And all the while, they think they're doing the precise opposite.
If any of these politicians would like to come on to this show and discuss these issues, I would be delighted to have them. Consider it an open invitation. In the meantime, I'd like to remind Parliament that homosexuality was removed from the World Health Organization's list of psychiatric disorders back in 1993. Being gay is not a medical condition that requires treatment. Unfortunately, activists have been remarkably successful in confusing the issues through semantic ambiguities and the redefinition of terms. And so, although it sounds desperately counterintuitive, the truth is that in order to oppose gay conversion therapy, one must be opposed to a ban on "trans conversion therapy."
#Andrew Doyle#no debate#gay conversion therapy#conversion therapy#woke homophobia#anti gay#homophobia#historical revisionism#Marsha P. Johnson#Stonewall Inn#Stonewall riots#gender ideology#queer theory#intersectional feminism#gender identity ideology#sterilization#autism#trans the gay away#autism spectrum#religion is a mental illness
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"Dear DOB Sisters,
For some time now I have been receiving mail from you; I feel quite close to you through your newsletter. It is much like a letter from home each month. I would love to come to the meetings and functions, but my late working hours and our two small children at home make that quite impossible to do. My wife, Michelle, and I feel we know all of you through your names and articles in the newsletter; you are truly a household word. Our neighborhood is not at all oriented to gay life, nor is there any gay socializing nearby. Most of our friends are straight, and though it's pleasant, it is not as rewarding as one letter from DOB each month. It is our only link to a chain too far away to get to. I thank you for that.
I have read so often of the heartaches and humiliations suffered in trying to make a world of people who don't understand just try to. I understand these problems very well. In this new year, we must remember all the struggles we have gone through for recognition as a wholesome, normal people. All the marches, debates, and still the terrible degradations some of us have had to endure. All of this is our reason for God's placing us here. If at one point in the year just one of the thousands of people we have encountered turns to a friend and says, "You know, I think I understand them," well, then we have made some progress haven't we?
My wife, Michelle, and I have done this, and I thought you might like to know about it.
In the beginning of 1969, we found ourselves pretty much in hot water. I had left a job in New York to live in Jersey with Michelle. She wanted to move to New Jersey and so we did. Finding an apartment was pretty rough, because I had not yet gotten settled in a job, but we did manage to eventually get into a housing project that was still nice for the kids and Michelle.
After all was settled, furniture and all, we set ourselves done to living normally again with all the chaos involved with moving - you know this is not an easy task... but it was all done rather quickly. My wife is very capable and with me taking the kids our for the afternoon, she really got the house together. When we returned, I found a home where I had left a barren apartment that echoed everything we said. Michelle had even managed to hang curtains.
We sent Lori, our oldest, out to play, and soon after she came home crying. A little girl she had bene trying to play with told her that her mother said not to play with her. After much comforting, all settled down, and we shrugged it off, because often strangers moving into a building are not welcomed right away.
Time went on and soon we found out there had never been any lesbians in this project before, nor were there any "known" lesbians in this area. Michelle and I were almost totally ignored. Michelle did have one or two who would say hello to her, but to me they wouldn't speak to. I am very pronounced in my appearance; there is not mistaking me for what I am: I am butch and Michelle loves me that way. Everything I wear she picks out for me, and she gibes me my haircuts. I am a product of her and we are content with it. Although the men and women in the building seemed to feel my appearance was a threat to them- getting on the elevator with me was out of the question- with Michelle they would hesitate and get on anyway.
I believe to this day the only thing that helped was Michelle's way with the house and the kids. She kept a spotless home, and she is an excellent mother. Slowly she would run into a woman in the Laundromat who might comment on how well behaved the children were. Each time, Michelle would run home simply elated; nothing could have been better than someone really talking to her. It was such a small thing that meant so much to me. I thought I would ask her to move, but she said she is here and she will stay whether they like it or not.
Then I decided I would take her out for a night, go into New York, be with other gay people for a while; she might feel better. Michelle asked one of the teenage girls in the building if she would sit for the children that night. The girl said no first, then said that her mother finally consented. All was fine until the day after we went out. I came home and found Michelle totally wrecked! It seems the girl went home after sitting for us and was asked by her mother if she was propositioned, molested, or asked to return when we were both home. Well, I think Michelle's heart was broken, she adores children, and teenagers to her are still babies. Michelle is from a professional family, so I believe her nice manner was inherited and would have been a lot nicer than my manner at that point. She went to talk to the mother that evening. I don't know what was said to this day, but the girl is still baby-sitting for us, no questions asked. Soon after, we were known as "pretty nice people, but don't be alone with them."
Michelle asked a woman one day if she wanted a ride to the store with her. The woman said all right as long as her husband didn't know. Each month passed until summer finally came, when the usual habit of the women in this building is to sit outside with their chairs and talk. We passed this group of sunbathers quite often, and usually the air was pretty tense or the conversations would cease. It was very heartbreaking for Michelle. She had not wanted to be a part of any gossip or coffee cloth (coffee klatch), but the complete withdrawal from her was a bit too much. My heart went out to her then, as it does whenever she does something really great, which is pretty often.
But slowly people started giving credit where it belonged. Michelle and the kids won them over whether they liked it or not. First with the children, then with our home. One day the electricity went out, and our Lori walked a man all the way up to the twelfth floor, holding his hand, because he had a heart condition; she even saw him to his floor.
Then the day came when Michelle and I were giving a party for Lori. The children were to come at one p.m. and leave at three p.m. The party lasted until eight that night. Michelle even cooked dinner for all fourteen kids. They loved it; the kids just wouldn't go home.
The next day our phone rang constantly, mothers calling asking what we did, the children never stopped talking about how wonderful Michelle and I were, how they loved us. From the mouth of babes came the answer.
Now when Michelle and I go out the door, ten kids rush to kiss her hello, and couldn't they please come with us? Even the mothers are surprised at the affection they have for Michelle, a truly wholesome and normal affection too. Today int his community they know that lesbians are not stag-film replicas or degrading. Today when they need a good meat loaf recipe or their hair done, even an interior decorator or baby-sitter, they simply call on the two lesbians who moved up to the twelfth floor two years ago.
We all have our struggles. Isn't it great when we make enough headway to walk into a restaurant and not have the waitresses huddle in a corner whispering, or walk down the theater aisle and everyone keeps watching the picture, or walk down a street unnoticed?
Love to all of you,
Joanne, Michelle, Lori, Danny"
"Dear DOB Sisters" from December 1969, a letter by Joanne, Michelle, Lori, Danny, The Persistent Desire by Joan Nestle (1992)
#the persistent desire#the persistent desire: a butch femme reader#Joan nestle#lesbian#lesbianism#lesbian history#butch femme#lgbt#lgbtq+ history#butch history#femme history
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an incomplete list of texts i sent as i slowly lost my mind over the second book of rivers of london, because i fully intend to drag at least one more person into this pit with me. come read with me i promise you're gonna feel so good and normal over this book, come closer
wow okay peter remains the absolute horniest bastard ever. is he a tits or an ass man? yes
oh we are just getting the surface levels hints of nightingales MOUNTAIN of unresolved PTSD and i am very 🥺
you ever feel like a character was written specifically to appeal to you? i'm getting so many tantalizing hints and i KNOW he's going to destroy because he's catnip. he is bait specifically designed to hurt my feelings
also his description makes me think of lee pace or like, 90s/00s paul mcgann and that's just Very Good and i'm being deeply not normal about it
also nightingale reads as SO queer to me, and the potential in fic to explore what that means insofar as how he has navigated the changing landscape of queerness from 1900 to present day is so tantalizing. i don't care that the author says he's not, in this case the author is wrong lol
i must say, i do not care for simone. if we absolutely MUST have hetersexual nonsense in this book i would like beverly back please. she was cool and not a cheating homewrecking jazz groupie lol
still not impressed with simone. i mean, far be it from me to judge a woman's grieving process and all, but she doesn't seem very broken up over her within-the-week dead lover. i mean, i LOVE peter and all and he's hot shit, but immediately falling into bed with him? sus
in conclusion bring 👏 bev 👏 back 👏
also peter, buddy, WHAT ARE YOU DOING
he's a disaster so even though i'm screaming DON'T DO THAT i am unsurprised he is being led around by his dick by a beautiful woman throwing herself at him
but i just. i Don't Trust Her. she doesn't make sense, and i can't tell if this is a case of male author writing wish fulfillment and thus not giving the hot girl adequate motivation of her own
or whether i AM supposed to find it suspicious the way she basically doesn't mourn the man she homewrecked who died very suddenly and then IMMEDIATELY jumps into bed with the magic cop investigating his very probable murder
and i REALIZE the only way to find out is to keep reading, it's just frustrating that women are written poorly so often that, even if he's written good women before, i still have to debate with this is a subtle clue or just Male Author Syndrome
oh my god he finally twigs that this may be weird behavior. peter. bud.
at least he got it before trying to sneak her past folly wards?
side note: god lesley really got the short end of the stick. like, her face fell off, her teeth are a fucking mess, and she probably has brain damage. she got royally shafted
peter "i'm totally straight" grant, talking about how he wants to take a muscly guy by the shoulders and kiss his cheeks and making sure to mention how many phone numbers her got while canvasing the gay bar.
hmm sure, jan
look i KNOW peter is Incredibly Horny All The Time when near any attractive woman, but simone appears from NOWHERE half dressed while he's canvassing for the jazz vampire and he just skives off like that? while looking for a potential killer? that doesn't seem like him he's not that irresponsible. that smells like conspiracy and glamour and i don't trust herrrrrrr
like, peter was already horny wanting to motorboat mama thames (lol don't think i didn't catch that pun) last book. but this book has been a whole new level of horny, and peter may be distractible but not THAT distractible surely
another side note. i love molly and nightingale's weird friendship they've developed living basically with just each other for decades.
oh jesus that's fucked up
oh the severed head is talking
oh. oh no. it got worse
peter, darling, beloved, is now REALLY the time to be talking about how hot your boss is? like i appreciate your dedication to the thirst but time and place, bud
oh never mind i forgive you nightingale is so fucking cool, i get it, i love him
he's so good. the most tragic backstory and perfect stiff upper lip old fashioned english gentleman on the outside, and then just below the surface he's a daredevil and a bit of a bitch and he fucking CARES just SO MUCH and have i mentioned how much the casterbrook wall HURTS ME?? this was revealed in the last book but i just remembered it and it stabbed me again
okay i'm done
i feel like peter has miscalculated making a deal with his cousin to teach her if she aces latin. that's gonna come back to bite lol hope you like teaching too smart for their own good teenagers cuz that's gonna be your life now
"but sir, what do we do if you die??!" "well, that doesn't seem like it will be my problem at that point :)" he's such a bitch sometimes and i LOVE him, mother
ohhhhh. oh no. the pale lady looked like molly and now molly is obviously not okay after she died, that resemblance wasn't just coincidence she definitely knew her 😢
and this is the first person peter has killed, no matter how accidentally. and nightingale is back in the hospital with his chest infection. wow everyone is just having a terrible time right now
okay. i realize that as a memory for him this probably isn't a GOOD one, it's from the war and probably much scarier and MUCH more traumatizing than he makes it sound with his dry narration of it. but god. nightingale knocked out two TANKS. by himself. with his mind. fucking sexy lol
oh damn it why can't they just let me be horny about how powerful he is instead of immediately following it with the fact that he was rear guard and making emotional that it means he was the one trusted to watch over and protect the rest of his men while they retreated as that one final shield between them and enemy fire
hhhhhhhholy shit what did simone DO to mama grant???!!!!
she just bitch slapped her!
OH MY GOD SHE TRIED TO HOMEWRECK HIS PARENTS TOO???
she's PLAUSIBLY IMMORTAL???
fuck i was right she was sketchy as hell!!
she's a fucking jazz vampire and she's been glamouring and sucking him dry! buddy, get to dr walid STAT for a brain scan and make sure she's not turning you into cauliflower!
peter don't you make excuses for her you KNOW it's possible, stop lying about your mum and trying to make her feel better you need to take her in she's a m u r d e r e r
i mean, glamour yes i realize but god, frustrating
good lad peter, i see you fighting it 💪🏾
ohhhhhhhh. oh fuck. she didn't KNOW. she didn't know she was from the 40s and killing people. oh this is bad
nightingale, attempting to show concern: "that was not the most intelligent thing you've done" xD 10/10 nailed it buddy
umm, nightingale? this may not be the black and white moral situation you think it is to go in guns blazing...
it's both funny and little sad how militant both molly and dr walid are when nightingale is injured like. i do LOVE when the person who is SUPPOSEDLY in charge gets lovingly bullied, but it hurts because that's also probably the ONLY way to make him take care of himself is if they FORCE him. and peter's not any better, he's gonna need bullying too
i do love when they team up though. molly and nightingale ganging up against peter like. nightingale gets the special treatment and a hot cocoa from molly, but peter gets the dog's leash and smug little "i'm on bedrest :)" or nightingale foisting the rest of his kidney pie on peter while molly is out of the room then grabbing his empty plate back to pretend he ate it all himself when she returns xD
the cases are interesting and all, but i think it's the core characters that are really the standout of the novel and the reason i keep reading even while i'm asking myself things like, but WHY is she killing via vagina dentata instead of literally any other assassination method? i think it's also why simone stood out so much. she HAD no background that we were told (until now) aside from being sexy. which of course i now know was intentional
"this is your brain, which is not only clean and unsullied by thought..." i love dr walid. it probably says something about me that my favorite characters all have to be at least a little bit of a bitch
oh no i'm having feeeeeelings about both nightingale and peter trying to keep the other out of the vampire raid to shield them from the emotional effects of it, just from opposite ends. nightingale doesn't want peter to have the pain of ANOTHER death on his hands, this one purposeful as opposed to the accidental death of the pale lady, so he's trying to just cut him out of it. and then peter ALSO doesn't want NIGHTINGALE to have the weight of more deaths on his soul and wants to protect him from what he sees as the unfortunate necessity of having to off someone who isn't intentionally hurting someone but still may be too dangerous to live. nightingale trying to save peter from his bleeding heart and peter saving nightingale from his practicality overriding his morality 😭 i just love when characters try to take care of each other in mirrored ways
uh...uh oh peter...no i don't think those are the police OR nightingale's paratrooper buddies
okay the audiobook is fucking excellent though, his infomercial voice while extolling the virtues of doc martins is KILLING me
oh this posh wanker. "oh what is feeding on people but another form of exploitation, and we all know there's nothing wrong with exploiting workers, equality is morally bankrupt anyway" god i hate you already you're insufferable
like of COURSE a dining club oxford nose wipe would think that way. he thinks he's sooooo slick and original with his chimeras they're such exciting new COL crimes but it all just boils down the the exact same rich white bullshit mentality
he would hate it if he realized how dull and banal his villainy is once you strip back the shock value of the trappings. just another entitled prick who views people as things, fuck this dude
i'd be tempted to say the faceless man's signare smelling like pork was a dig at david cameron and piggate if i didn't know it was written a few years too early for that lol
peter: oh no nightingale is going to give me SUCH a bollocking
nightingale, obviously so relieved he's alive: very much does NOT give him a bollocking and instead tells him how impressive it is that he didn't just immediately die against the faceless man
"for a terrifying moment i thought he was going to huge me, but fortunately we both remembered we were english just in time. still, it was a close call" 🤣🤣🤣
oh ouch peter. just use all his dead friends against him. effective but also, low blow
god he wants so badly for peter to be right, too, that they and HE doesn't have to kill anyone anymore, that how that it's not Just Him ALl Alone they might have the support structure for other options. oh no i want this to work so badly so that hope is validated, but i just know something is gonna go wrong
welp
i didn't like her but i didn't want her fuckin DEAD you know?
and now the ones left standing have to deal with the trauma and the fallout
oh lesley :( they're both trying so hard to be normal about it and they're such good friends 🥺
LESLEY DO MAGIC?
LESLEY JOIN TEAM FOLLY???!!
also don't think you've been sneaky there and that i haven't noticed SOME sort of thematic symmetry of lesley struggling with having lost her face involuntarily from magic, and the faceless man having voluntarily masked himself. involuntary vs voluntary loss of identity. i'm sure there will be more parallels in the next book but like. i see you. i see you setting up face themes with these two
hopefully with lesley regaining her face somehow and thus reclaiming identity while the faceless man is unmasked thus losing the identity he built for himself and revealing the true one he hid. maybe hopefully? i want good things for lesley and bad things for the faceless one.
#rivers of london#under a readmore because it's so long and i don't want to owe even MORE of an apology to everyone in the tag than i already do
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20 Questions For Fic Writers
Tagged by @beckstraordinary
1. How many works do you have on AO3?
9 completed works, some of them multichapter but nothing tooo long. one series.
2. What's your total AO3 word count?
More than my actual thesis... that i should have been writing... for my actual work... (almost 85k)
3. What fandoms do you write for?
Ted Lasso and Tedpendent specifically! But I am a multishipper, so you'll find some TrentBeard in there and some TrentRoy too.
I'd love to write for Midnight Mass but I'm scared of how to write all the religious talk. I thought about writing for OFMD and BBC Ghosts but sort of didn't find the inspiration. There's something about TedTrent that just has that sort of grip on my brain I guess!
4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?
So... Michelle’s Bisexual Bureau of Investigation seems to be the most liked. I mean, it's basically about Trent being a gay disaster on social media so I think many of us out there can relate (it's actually largely based on something I personally did). It was fun to write and I can sort of see why it's a fun read.
Second, third and fourth place we have 🪄The Smut Fics🪄. It's all private on ao3, so you'll need a profile to access them cause, well.
Fifth place we have Bicycle Day Surprisingly Not About Cycling, which is about divorced dads with a mutual crush doing LSD together. 😇 It was so hard to write but I had one (1) idea and had to stick with it!! Also it was for a challenge so I was extra determined to get it out of my system.
Ironically (in the Alanis sense of the term) some of my personal favourites have the least kudos.
5. Do you respond to comments?
Yes! I love recieving comments and I wanna let people know I really appreciate them. Also, I love commenting on fics and treat the comment section on ao3 as a sort of community-building place. People have been so nice and lovely in the comment sections, it's amazing, really.
6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?
The ending is not angsty, cause I like to give some happiness to my fictional babes, but this one is sort of angsty and has the least explicit happy ending: Can you still edit a written book?. It's about Beard and Trent being sad and miserable about Ted leaving and hooking up about it. I also wrote a short sequel here: A different pace. This is a wip series and it's the most emo / earnest i got with fic writing. I don't mind it tho!
7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?
Inside of me there are two wolves.
One wants to make a sex joke out of the question and thus recommending smut, the other wants to link a wholesome future fic written from the Crimmlet's pov. The duality of humankind.
All of my fics have happy endings, so I'll re-interpret the question and I'll link A very special Crimmlet Diary entry for Coming Out day because it has a glimpse on a very cute and happy family future for Ted and Trent together.
8. Do you get hate on fics?
Only from my own brain when I feel down about my writing! 🙃
9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?
YES. I. DO.
More open than the jar of peanut butter on my kitchen counter is a multi-chapter multishipping madness of a fic I thought about orphaning many times and which I keep as a testament of my own progress in writing fics. I am still grateful for having had some help with beta-reading it but it's just such a mess and very self-indulgent. There's some fun sexy parts including potentially problematic dirty talk, public sex, platonically holding your hands with your bff while you both get head... Ops.
I also wrote an alternative chapter for it which became a one shot, called Cowboys are secretly frequently fond of each other, which is about Trent getting horny over Ted singing karaoke.
But I think the only one I really like it's You’re an angel I’m a dog (Or you're a dog and I'm your man). It's a nasty (you've been warned!) PWP pup play fic. I just think those men deserve to be freaks once in a while. I debated over publishing this as anon but my lack of shame won.
10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?
No... but I do think Trent deserves boyfriends from every corner of the multiverse.
11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?
No, don't think so.
12. Have you ever had a fic translated?
No.
13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?
No, but I'd love to. My DMs are open!
14. What’s your all time favorite ship?
💙Ted and Trent💙. Truly a perfect ship. My losers. I love them.
15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?
The Midnight Mass AU that lives rent free in my head and that most likely will never see the light of day (...wink wink, pun intended).
16. What are your writing strengths?
I don't know! I think I can be quite funny. And sometimes poetic, even accidentally so, in the way non-native speakers sometimes can be, using language in a different way. I think I can also write pining quite well (gay water sign talent).
17. What are your writing weaknesses?
I hate, HATE, writing dialogue. I am terrified of it. I am afraid it will sound fake or artificial. I also feel insecure about English not being my first language and it showing in fics, in them sounding weird somehow. Not seeing mistakes etc. But I also lack the impulse control needed to wait for fics to be beat read and I sometimes just post the second is done. Which. Not ideal.
18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?
The bane of my existence. Hell on earth. Help. (I willfully misinterpret this question and answer implying that all dialogue is in another language for me).
19. First fandom you wrote for?
Somewhere, on EFP (Italian fanfic site) there are some original works of mine from AGES AGO, and even (if memory doesn't fail me) some Harry Potter wips that I hope are long gone, since fuck that TERF and her work.
20. Favourite fic you’ve written?
Probably the last one I wrote for the AFC Richmond discord server bingo challenge. To love flowing in different directions. it's about queer chosen family and love. It has puns about sex toys, drunken confessions, fantastic wing man action, lots of mutual pining. It was fun to write!
No pressure tags: @bookqueen101 @leeofthestone @thistableforone @rootingfordorks @crimmcakes @carduelisfinch @tinylilemrys @jamiepoptart
#ao3#fanfic writers#fanfic writing#fanfic#fanfiction#writer questions#writing#tedtrent fic#tedtrent#tedpendent#ted lasso fic#ted lasso fanfic
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HERE ARE MY MAIN SIX ‘12 HEADCANNONS
Very slight nsfw
Raph
My boy is a bisexual king and we love him for that.
Has a massive praise kink, call him a good boy or how good hes doing and he’ll melt
Autistic (totally not projecting)
Listens to metal and is the embodiment of ‘can you feel my heart’ by bmth (again, really not projecting)
He has severe anxiety and since Leo’s coma it’s only worsened, Spike is the only one who actually knows but his brothers are onto it as well, because of the panic attacks
Has learned sign language, trash talks with Donnie.
They use he/they pronouns, has tried she pronouns but wasn’t comfortable
Transmasc, i saw the headcannon and I will forever stand by this too.
He feels at fault for Splinter’s death
They are polyamorous, no further explanation he just is.
Casey was his first kiss.
The brain worm left him with severe headaches and balance issues
PTSD
Loves gossipping, has in fact bonded with Karai and Shini because of it
And Mona is there to hear it
After Alopex joined the mutanimals, she, Casey, Raph and Mona became total besties.
Raph loves doing selfcare as a way of destressing, no one knows this except April
Wears eyeliner sometimes and helps Karai with hers too
Leo
This boy is so gay, like Fruity™️
Usagi comfirmed it
Karai knows and is number 1 leosagi fan
Uses mainy he/they pronouns, has sometimes used she pronouns too
BOTTOM WITH EMPHASIS ON BOTTOM
Can be soo sassy when he wants to be
Has PTSD
Really likes Imagine Dragons
Plays minecraft
They got stoned on pot brownies that Casey brought to the lair once
Kinda gets stoned more often now
But he’s responsible and only does it when hes at the farmhouse because of lesser threats, he, Raph and Casey do it together
Loves coffee more than tea
Mikey
Absolutely pansexual, like no debate
ADHD and dyslexic
Uses they/she pronouns but honestly doesn’t mind any
Defenitely sumn going on between them and Leatherhead, defenitely.
Has a giant pansexual flag in their room at her bedframe
Switch
Knows tons of languages like spanish, french and a little bit of german
Really dislikes the taste of coffee
She is terrifying when angry
Donnie
Biromantic ace no doubt no further explanation.
100% autistic
Uses he/him pronouns mostly but honestly does not care cus gender is a social construct.
Has gotten stoned with Leo sometimes
When it’s fall he’ll pester April to get a PSL every. Single. Day.
Casey
BI FUCKING SEXUAL, EMBODIMENT OF BISEXUALITY
He/she/they pronouns, very comfortable in his masculinity though.
Listens to P!ATD and jams out with Raph
He loves cuddles, like physical affection is his love language.
Hardcore stoner
Thinks Leo’s voice is super fucking hot
Does weightlifting next to hockey and is in fact strong enough to lift each of the turtles
Really wants to learn martial arts but he has no patience for the basics
April
She has severe anxiety after her dad got captured
Bonds with Raph best next to Donnie
Had an emo phase when she was 14
Wears contacts
She wanted to give her tessen to Karai, but Karai refused and told her to keep them.
She’s a lightweight, one glass of wine is enough
Has often checked on Raph after Splinter’s death, big sister mode™️ was very much activated
As a group+ other friends
They have game night every friday
When Casey and April stay the night, they all make breakfast together while jamming to their favorite music
When April asks for clothing advise, the boys will take it very seriously
They have a discord server , the main six have their own seperate channel called “the lair” but all their friends are in the server and can ask to be added to the call at any time.
They have given lair parties
During those parties they play games like ‘spin the bottle’ or ‘truth or dare’
Raph paints all the girl’s nails because of his steady hands.
Mona, April, Karai, Shini and Renet have girls nights on saturday, it makes Karai feel like a proper teen.
#tmnt 2012 april#tmnt 2012#tmnt 2012 raph#teenage mutant ninja turtles 2012#tmnt 2k12#tmnt 2012 donnie#tmnt 2012 casey jones#tmnt 2012 leo#tmnt 2012 mikey#tmnt headcanons#tmnt 2012 headcanons
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Hi! I really love all your Gai x Kakashi stories, they are very beautiful and you always develop their dynamic very well. 🩷💜
I also wanted to know, what do you think about a fic where Kakashi is totally in love with Gai, but he thinks Gai is very straight, so he thinks he won't reciprocate his feelings, however he later discovers that Gai is not as straight as he thought?
Oh thank you so much anon! Glad to hear you enjoy my fics :3
I've considered a one shot idea very similar to that honestly, but I've yet to write it! However...you've inspired a lil drabble so here ya go ;)
Summer is hard on a man who wears a mask, but that's not why his face is so hot.
The sun is beating down and he's shielding his eyes and he's watching Gai from the bank of the river and he swears, he swears he must be drooling too because there's no way it's that wet beneath his mask and Gai is just. so. hot.
Gai floats on his back in the sun and he’s positively shimmering, glistening like the water’s surface. He’s smiling and Kakashi feels his heart tug him to the water but he waits. He watches a little longer. Always, just out of reach.
“Rival!” Gai calls. “The water is perfect! Come cool off with me!”
But how, when Kakashi’s body feels on fire every time he looks at him? Gai, who never seems to have a clue at how he feels, who’s so very likely to be nothing more to him than his best friend - which is fine, that’s fine, that’s more than fine - but even still. Just one kiss would be enough. One caress. One breath and he’d be able to—
“Kakashi come swim with me!” Gai calls insistently. “You are positively melting over there I just know it!”
“Maa, I’m coming, relax,” Kakashi calls back. He looks around, satisfied the privacy of the spot they picked, and strips down to his underwear. He saves his mask for last, debates on whether he should keep it on to hide his blush, but carefully slides it off. A risk, but he’ll take it. It’s too hot anyway.
He wades into the water and sighs as it cools him, relief fresh and exhilarating as he makes his way to Gai, who is now back stroking down the bend. He comes up just close enough that he’s within reach of him but stops and watches instead, once again. He splashes him a little and Gai roars with laughter when he notices.
“See? Isn’t it lovely?” Gai asks genuinely and god he is just beaming, he’s gorgeous, he’s so very oblivious, he’s everything Kakashi wants, and Kakashi is just seconds from kissing him.
“Rival?”
“Ah. Yeah. Sorry. Just…it’s a little cold.”
“All the more refreshing!” Gai declares and splashes him playfully. Kakashi smirks and they boyishly chase each other around, pushing water towards each other, grazing bare arms and legs. Kakashi knows this is as close as he can get. That’s ok. He can laugh like this and smile and have fun and he can want to kiss him so badly and refrain, and it can be enough. No one makes him feel like this, no one will. He wonders if Gai feels the same in some way, even if it’s not quite what he’s feeling himself. Maybe he’ll ask one day. But not today. It’s too hot today. He’d melt today. He’d combust.
When they’ve had their fill of the river they emerge on the bank, breathless and dripping and giddy. They lay in the grass, drying in the sun, and Kakashi watches Gai as Gai sprawls out, preening, eyes closed.
“This is nice,” Gai says. Kakashi hums and closes his eyes himself now, unable to stare further without wavering in his resolve.
“It is good to be here with you rival,” Gai says. Kakashi smiles, warmed by more than the sun now. Rival is enough, he tells himself.
“It’s good to be here with you too,” he confesses. It’s quiet another moment before Kakashi cracks open an eye to see Gai hovering over him, a droplet falling just in time onto his cheek.
“Gai?”
“Yes!”
“What are you doing?”
“Well, I was thinking, I’d very much like to kiss you, if that’s alright!”
Kakashi blinks.
“What.”
Gai doesn’t waver.
“I said I’d very much like to—“
“I heard what you said.”
Gai grins.
“It’s fine if you do not feel the same!” he says. “But today is a day for seizing the moment! And I think we are both truly experiencing our youthfulness to the fullest! So I wanted to ask you!”
Kakashi is dumbstruck and feels like he’s staring directly at the sun, even with Gai blocking it. It looks like a halo around his wet black hair.
“But you’re…are you…?”
“Would you like me to kiss you, Kakashi?” he says it softer this time, gentler, more earnest. And Kakashi is burning again. He burns and burns and when Gai finally leans in and his lips touch his, when the touch becomes a kiss, when the kiss has hands and tongue and teeth, Kakashi is aflame.
In the summer sun, with Gai’s lips on his, Kakashi blazes. No cooling to be had for the flame, he lets it ignite within him, and swallow him whole.
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