#and argyle didn’t exist like that just for you to ignore him
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‘fruity four’ this and ‘ronance/steddie solidarity’ that but WHERE is the recognition for these gay ass bitches
like you wanna look at this and tell me that’s NOT a bisexual and a pansexual respectively ?? they did not spend an entire season trapped in a van with byler as straight people that’s all i’m saying
#jonathan byers did not defend his bowie poster to his father in season one for you to call him straight#and argyle didn’t exist like that just for you to ignore him#jonathan byers#argyle stranger things#jargyle#but also in general#ronance#steddie#the fruity four#jancy#theyre bisexual solidarity ok you can’t change my mind
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Nest
A Steddie A/B/O ficlet
Contrary to popular belief, Alpha heartthrob of Hawkins High Steve Harrington never managed to find himself a suitable mate. He tried, he tried multiple times with many different omegas, tried with Betas, hell he even tried with another Alpha! However, he never lived up to their expectations, he was never what they expected or hoped for, those he tried to court always eventually told him he was too soft.
He lacked the aggression, the ‘slam you against a wall and take you’ kind of rough edges a typical Alpha would have that made the act thrilling for his partner, that created that kind of primal need to submit that they desperately longed for.
He lacked the primordial Alpha need to take, to claim. Some even claimed he ought to have been born an Omega, that the Alpha didn’t suit him, that somehow he’d been born wrong, that his secondary gender didn’t fit him, it wasn’t right.
He was too soft, too affectionate, too clingy too— too much.
Everything about him was bullshit.
Nancy, his one attempt at a relationship with another Alpha, had been drunk when she’d said that to his face, and she didn’t actually remember saying it the day after, but… it still stuck with him years after it’d happened. Years after they’d become friends, years after she’d settled into a Poly relationship with a sweet, if a little awkward omega, Jonathan and his ridiculous (read: weirdly charming, Steve loved him) Beta mate, Argyle.
So he didn’t have a mate. No big deal, it wasn’t like he longed for one or anything, it definitely not like that at all. It wasn’t like he wanted a big family, to be loved, to be wanted, to be welcomed into a nest made of a mixture of his and his mates clothes, his and his mates blankets and pillows and—it was fine. He was fine.
He wasn’t fine, but within that failure, came opportunity. Alphas came in all shapes, sizes, and thankfully, as much as people liked to doubt, temperaments, which given how soft he as an alpha was, made him perfect for Nest. A clinic for unmated Omegas who struggled with their heats, Omegas who had nowhere to turn, no-one to help them through the worst week of the month.
An alpha helped. Even if he didn’t touch them, and usually he didn’t, having an alpha there, their pheromones permeating the room, just existing in their space, sometimes it was enough to help ease the pain of having no-one to fulfil the other needs.
He wasn’t allowed to touch them intimately, it wasn’t a sex thing, it was a comfort thing. A thing some Omegas needed, especially if they’d never had an alpha with them before.
Sometimes, never having one was worse than having one once and never again. You craved something with no frame of reference for why or how to recreate it, you’d go mad going in circles trying to figure out why this part of you needed something so badly despite never having had it.
It could get bad. Some went mad over it. Hence the Clinics.
Hawkins had one. Singular. Just one. It was linked up to the hospital, deeply underfunded and regularly had protesters outside claiming the alphas inside to be sex workers.
Blatant ignorance at work there, but Steve stopped caring about his public image before he’d even left school so on each shift he’d walk through the throng of idiots, with his head held high, greet his best friend Robin at the front desk, a quirky Beta with zero brain to mouth filter and the gift of gab.
She probably wouldn’t call it a gift, but Steve adored her. Had a bit of a crush on her at first, quickly replaced by platonic love after she’d drunkenly came out to him in a public restroom at a Christmas party.
She liked women. Omega women to be specific. He’d never asked her to elaborate on why not male Omegas, she had a type, that was that.
Steve liked both, he liked all. Steve wasn’t fussed, Omega, Beta, Alpha, male or female? It didn’t matter to him, he’d tried all in his search for a mate that’d stay and found himself enjoying all.
He just needed one to stay.
He’d walk in, greet Robin, if he didn’t have an Omega already, he’d grab a clipboard with his new assignment on it and head straight there. It was one of those days.
His last Omega, an awkward little thing that Steve sort of recognised from high school, he’d been a freshman during Steve’s last year, had left the night before, content and at ease, had spent most of the coherent hours talking Steve’s ear off about a table top RPG game he played with friends, Dungeons and Dragons.
Steve didn’t mind, he asked questions, let him bounce character ideas off of him, helped him pick a race out of a mix of words Steve didn’t really recognise but it made the Omega, Gareth, happy.
They came up with Galgrun the Giant together. A Dwarf with a height complex and a really big hammer.
He liked Gareth. Gareth was sweet, soft, bit too young though. Reminded Steve of the gaggle of kids Nancy’s little brother would hang around.
His new assignment was older.
Older than himself by one year, which… wasn’t unusual but it definitely wasn’t a normal occurrence either. Usually the Omegas that used the facility were younger, younger and in desperate need of comfort.
“They’ve put him in room 69, he found that hilarious.” Robin chirped when Steve looked up from his clipboard. Another him. Not that that was a bad thing, sometimes they alternated. “He’s a little… jumpy, very nervous, I could smell him a mile away and you know what my sense of smell is like.” Most first timers were, he checked out the clipboard again, no previous alpha, no sexual history, no… nothing.
For an omega older than himself to have zero experience in intimacy with an alpha, even the soft non-sexual kind? No wonder he was jumpy. “Alright, says here he came from a referral?”
“Yeah, GP basically threw him at us after he turned violent during his last heat an damn near mauled his uncle, he mentioned Gareth when he came in, that’s why they gave him to you.” Not just because he was one of the best Alphas there, but because Gareth had said nice things, the omega had asked for him. “Go get him tiger.”
Part 2
#PirateWrites#Steddie#CW: A/B/O#No Upside Down AU#Omegaverse#Omega!Eddie Munson#Alpha!Steve Harrington#NestFiclet
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twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)
HOUR SEVEN
in which you come to a few realizations while remembering the very first night you'd met eddie. a phone call with steve leaves you with more questions than answers.
→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn
→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, heavier angst this chapter but all will be well soon, two uses of y/n, upside down does not exist, minors dni
→ word count: 4.4k+
→ a/n: shorter chapter today but the focus here is the memory! finally making some progress haha. also trying out something new with formatting/the summary situation. if i hate it, i'll probably change it. <3 also, italicized portion is a memory.
masterlist.
spotify playlist.
◁ previous part, next part▷
7:00 ────ㅇ────────────── 24:00
DINGUS: [image attachment]
DINGUS: y/n just texted me this. we’re not getting an update this hour.
BIRDIE: what the hell happened?
DINGUS: she hasn’t said yet, as you can see in the photo, robs.
ARGYLE 😎: what do we THINK happened?
BIRDIE: my best bet is fighting?
ARGYLE 😎: lover’s quarrel? Makes sense.
BIRDIE: i’m adding nance back into the chat
BIRDIE added NANCE to the groupchat.
BIRDIE: @NANCE explain what you meant earlier please. we’re having a code red. the bad kind.
DINGUS: there’s a good kind of code red?
NANCE: Oh God, what happened?
DINGUS: y/n texted me saying she fucked up, and we’re assuming either she’s finally murdered eddie, or they’re fighting again.
NANCE: I can call Eddie, if you guys want?
JOHNNY: So does this mean we’re all $500 richer?
BIRDIE: @JOHNNY if you still think this is about the money, you’re a fucking idiot
—
HOUR SEVEN - 10:00 PM
There had been a time in your life where you believed you didn’t hold a single mean bone in your body. A time where you were soft-spoken, a time where you overflowed with kindness and dotted out compliments to random strangers. There was once a version of you in this lifetime that worked so fervently to be the type of person people liked and enjoyed the company of. You always swore to always treat others with the same grace as you would prefer to receive as well.
A year ago, that version of you had been sidetracked.
You stare at the wooden frame of Eddie’s door with blank eyes. He wasn’t going to open it any time soon. You’d tried knocking multiple times, calling out to him in a soft voice, begging and pleading and begging and pleading. His response continued to be silence.
“All I’ve ever done is hurt you.”
With the haze clearing, in the midst of the aftermath and sour clarity, you wish you would have corrected him. Eddie and you had surely hurt each other countless times, but it is not all he’s ever done.
You can remember the better moments clearly now. The time you’d tripped walking up the steps of one of the bars on Main Street, and Eddie had been the only person in your friend group to stop completely, reflectively reaching out to catch you from embarrassing yourself. The night of your birthday, in which he hadn’t come to the party due to “work” as Steve had explained, but had sent a card along with your friends that contained a gift card to your favorite coffee shop. You hadn’t even realized he knew your favorite coffee shop, and you’d come to find out that he didn’t even ask a single one of your mutual friends for it. You’d brushed it off as a lucky guess. And there was the time you’d forgotten your wallet during a brunch with the group, and he hadn’t hesitated to pick up your bill with his own. He didn’t even give Robin the chance to argue; he’d simply snatched your bill from across the table when you’d paled as you dug through your bag, and didn’t say a word about you paying him back.
Small moments. Glimpses of kindness, bandages on wounds that you’d been ignoring to keep up a war between the two of you that you’d always assumed he’d started.
Eddie Munson wasn’t the enemy, and the first night you two met was never a red herring; it was a glimpse into who he actually was. A clear look past the armor he hadn’t formed yet when it came to you.
—
A YEAR AGO
“They’re going to love you!” Robin insists as she continues to shove you from behind through the entrance of the bar. Steve is ahead of you, guiding you through the rough crowd to the table the rest of the group had already snagged.
You turn your head over your shoulder, reaching up and grabbing the hand that Robin rested on you, “You don't know that. What if they hate me? What if they think I’m the worst person they’ve ever met?”
Even as you wore a smile, there was a truth to the fear in your words. You were petrified that these strangers, strangers who meant so much to your only friends on campus, would turn their noses to you. There was nothing Robin or Steve could do to extinguish the fear. It was already a terrible knot in the pit of your stomach, tying and untying itself like a nuisance as Steve started to wave at a brunette who had been scanning the bar as if waiting for someone.
She’s pretty. Wavy hair barely brushing her shoulders, sharp features accentuated in the shadows of the busy location. The moment her blue eyes locked on Steve, all the concentration on her face faded to be replaced with an excited smile.
She returns the wave, and the boys surrounding her at the table all glance in your direction.
You’re still half-hidden behind Steve as the three of you approach the group. Robin bounds out from behind you, scooping the woman you assumed was the famous Nancy into a barrelling hug. Your eyes flickered to the boy sat to Nancy’s right, shaggy hair flopping against his forehead and smile creases exposed as he nods to Steve and holds up his drink in greeting. Beside him, another man sits, long and shiny hair flowing over an outrageous Hawaiian print shirt and topped off with a baseball cap that looked to be the merchandise of a pizza shop. His smile is welcoming – something comforting in the relaxation of it.
You’re almost completely captivated by the warmth that bled from the group when Steve and Robin are suddenly taking their seats. Robin sits beside Nancy, while Steve takes the seat across from the man with long hair.
The only seat left open was between Steve and a man who’s back was turned to you.
His hair is in a loose bun, unraveling against the nape of his neck. You could see each and every defined curl. His broad shoulders stiffen beneath a leather jacket and denim vest, and his ring-clad hand cradles a short glass of something dark, something fizzy.
“Alright, everyone!” Steve announces, turning and beckoning you to take this seat. Your stomach twists again, realizing you’d be sitting beside a stranger. One who had yet to even spare you a glance, “This is Y/N.”
There’s rounds of greetings and introductions as you brush shoulders with the stranger to take your seat, and try as you might to keep up, all you can focus on is not looking at him.
You’re guess was correct – the pretty girl that Robin had hugged was Nancy. The boy with floppy hair at her side was Jonathan, and the man with long hair told you his name is Argyle. His tone of casualty matches the comfort of his smile as he holds a hand out to you across the table, both your elbow and his brushing against empty baskets once filled with bar food as you shake.
Finally, you turn to look at the stranger beside you, Steve reaching around to clasp his shoulder.
“And mister oh-so-welcoming here is Eddie.”
Eddie. He finally turns to look at you, with doleful eyes and a tight-lipped grin, and you almost forget how to breathe.
He was intimidating. All broodish glances and stand-offish energy. But then Argyle cracks a joke, and suddenly, it all fades. The air in the room crackles frantically as you watch him chuckle slowly at first, until he finally descends into cackles with Steve and Jonathan alike.
That’s when the first vine sprouts.
The second one does when the conversation becomes overwhelming, and you find yourself lost amongst the sea of new friends. They’re nothing but friendly, trying to learn more about you but easily falling into well-established inside jokes at times. When you descend into silence as you watch them recount a story of a time that Argyle snuck them into his job after hours, you suddenly feel Eddie lean in closer to you.
“I think they tell this story every time they get drunk,” he whispers, tilting his head so that the words only reach your ears, “I’ve probably heard it a hundred times by now.”
You bite back a smile, “Just tonight, or the entire time you’ve known them?”
“Both.”
You have to fight hard to swallow down giggles, Eddie hiding his with a sip of his drink. A waiter who had taken your order nearly ten minutes ago arrives with your own drink. An amaretto sour.
“I’m Eddie, by the way,” he says as you taste the drink. Its citrus bursts across your tongue and you nod.
“So Steve mentioned.”
“Yeah, but I felt bad for not introducing myself,” he shrugs. You were facing him fully now, no longer trying to stick vehemently to Steve’s side. “I didn’t want to seem like a dick, just… had a long week.”
You knew all about long weeks.
“I get it,” you assure him, “Are you in school, too?”
“Night classes,” he supplies with a wave of his hand, “Midterms are a bitch, especially after working all day.”
“Tell me about it. I think I’m about ten seconds away from getting fired at my current gig,” you joke, and Eddie laughs. It occurs to you that you’d probably do just about anything to hear his laugh more, and already begin to conjure up terrible jokes to pull that sound from him once more. It’s even more comforting than Argyle’s friendly cadence, than Steve’s elbow knocking yours to remind you he’s still there.
“Why would you think that?” Eddie’s nose scrunches, more curls falling against his cheek. Your drink is immediately forgotten.
“He caught me talking shit,” another laugh falls from Eddie’s lips at your deadpan, more reserved than the previous but just as melodic, “I give it a week. He was already looking for a reason to send me to the chopping block. Says I talk too much to customers.”
“Is that even possible?”
“Apparently.”
For a moment, in the smoky bar, it’s just you and Eddie. All knotting nerves have been replaced by the weight of the vines that surge higher and higher in your chest, growing at impossible rates. They don’t strangle you like your fears of the night had; their weight is a comforting hold, something solid to reach out for in the unfamiliar territory of new socialization. Without the mask of intimidation, Eddie feels like an old friend.
You assume that everyone else is distracted by their own conversation, but Robin catches the way you lean into him as the two of you joke. She nudges Nancy subtly, and they both share a look when Eddie blushes at you being impressed as he tells you that his battle vest is hand-sewn.
Your vines are not as hidden as you assume they are, certainly not when the first bud of hopefulness begins to grow.
“So how long have you known Steve?” you ask him quietly, still under the guise of the two of you having created your own small bubble of a moment.
Eddie downs the last of his Jack & Coke, something you caught onto by smelling it on his breath when he had gotten particularly close to you during conversation, “Too long. We all met in high school, actually.”
“Oh, don’t tell me that,” you groan, and your forehead dramatically falls into his shoulder without second-thought. He stiffens beneath the connection, “I’m infiltrating a friend group that’s stood the test of times? I’m doomed.”
You nearly lift your head from his still stiff shoulder, afraid to make him uncomfortable, when he brings a hesitant hand to pat your back jokingly, “There, there. I think you’re fitting in fine.”
“Just fine? Ouch,” you finally lift your head as you had planned to, just as Eddie had begun to relax into your touch. His hand doesn’t fall too far from your back, resting on the back of your chair. His shy grin is impossibly charming, “You could have just said I’m crashing and burning, you know?”
The night carries on like that, you and Eddie lost in private conversations only to be occasionally dragged back in on whatever debate the group is having. It’s a spring reaction; once one or both of you have given your two cents, you return to one another, finding solitude in joking and Eddie updating you on the group’s ‘lore’, as he puts it. Steve shoots several glances in your direction, always prepared to offer comfort in what should be an overwhelming situation, but he never has to. Every time he glances at you, Eddie is already taking the lead of entertaining you, qualming all your anxieties into non-existence.
Your vines decorate with buds of hope. Every laugh you pull from Eddie, every fleeting touch that passes between the two of you, every new inside joke he decides to make with you rather than indulging in ones set in stone already with old friends - they all whisper of new friendship. They whisper in potential, in new beginnings and coming home after long weeks.
By the time Nancy announces she has to go to the restroom and invites you and Robin, you’re in full bloom. You’re convinced that Eddie is a friend. And you can see it in his eyes – he’s convinced of it too, looking nervous when you stand and agree to go with Nancy. He looks like a child about to lose their social crutch, and it has potential to be devastating.
It’s almost enough to make you ignore your bladder, but you need to pee, and you need to socialize with more than just Eddie tonight.
You’re not sure what happens at the table during your trip to the bathroom. But something surely does happen as you giggle with the girls under the humming lights of the restroom, as you all stand in the mirror side by side and fiddle with your hair and makeup and Robin makes a comment about how terribly cliche the moment is. Nancy slaps her on the arm, mutters something about the importance of girls bonding, and when you return to the table, you see it immediately – Eddie’s mask of indifference has returned.
His cheeks are flushed, and all the boys are sharing nervous glances between one another as you all sit down again.
There’s no more fleeting touches. You sip on your now watered down drink, and you try and pull Eddie out from wherever he’s ventured in your absence, but it’s no use. A conversation was had while you girls had been in the restroom, and it left Eddie in his head, out of reach. The buds of hopefulness quiver on their vines, and you try to reassure yourself that it’s nothing personal. It’s nothing personal when he clearly holds back any laughs at your jokes you lean into his space to whisper to only him, it’s nothing personal when his arm never rests on the back of your chair again, it’s nothing personal when he won’t meet your eyes the rest of the night.
It’s nothing personal, but it’s sorely disappointing.
You end the night, everyone splitting up, Eddie heading off towards his motorcycle. He hadn’t even mentioned driving a motorcycle during the night, and you curse the way you watch him straddle the seat as he secures his helmet over his tied-back hair. You desperately wish to know what was said while you were in the bathroom, what had happened to make him retreat so far from you after spending the entirety of the night tending to the greenery that had grown attached to your ribcage.
“You like him, don’t you?” Robin teases at your side, bumping shoulders.
Something aches in you. The thrill of meeting someone new, of getting along, of finding them cute and endearing, is beyond your grasp.
He didn’t even say goodbye.
“I did,” you whisper softly. A reverberation of past-tense, an exhale of worry.
You did. But he didn’t even say goodbye.
—
Eddie still hasn’t opened the door. But to his defense, you haven’t tried knocking again.
That ache from that night, the feeling of a delicate rush of possibility taunting you from a distance, still remains. Even amongst now rotted vines, even as petals fall from your hopeful buds. It never really went away. With each group hangout that followed, it echoed louder and louder, demanding to be heard and demanding to be felt as Eddie grew colder. You were an idiot the first few times; you’d still gravitated to him, falling right into his orbit and begging for his attention. You’d still seek him out in every room, craving to find the warmth that had once sparked in his eyes only to find them averted from you entirely. And when you couldn’t take the hint, when you wouldn’t leave him alone when Steve and Robin left you to your own devices at the hangouts, he became mean.
You took it as a joke at first, but six months ago, something inside of you finally wisened up – it wasn’t a joke. Eddie Munson hated you. Somehow, he hated you, and yet he also swore to protect you. He hated you, and yet he would still pay for you without you asking him to. He hated you, and yet he still remembered your birthday. He hated you, and yet, he still knew your favorite coffee shop.
He hated you and yet.
You stand, unable to take your racing thoughts anymore, moving to pound on the door again, “Eddie. Open the door.”
You’re not asking anymore.
You don’t care for answers any more. In this moment, you truly believe you could let it all be water under the bridge. Right this second, if you looked into honey brown eyes and goddamn dimples, you’d forgive him.
“Eddie,” your voice cracks, and you scorn yourself.
All I ever do is hurt you.
Even in locking himself away, he’s hurting you. Putting that distance, choosing to not work this out like adults, is hurting you.
“Can you- I don’t know, at least let me know that… that…” you trail off, huffing in frustration and finally smacking a flat palm against wood, watching the door shake on its hinges from your force, “Just let me know you’re alive, Jesus Christ, Eddie. We still have to take the stupid fucking photo for this hour, and we-”
Mid-tirade, the door swings open to reveal Eddie. He doesn’t look irritated, he doesn’t look mad. He looks tired.
The war between you two has weighed heavy on him, too. He doesn’t look like the same person you met a year ago. The battles raged, the fights lost, the victories celebrated through bloody teeth – they all show on the shadows of his face, a clear mirror image to your own.
“Take the photo,” he says in monotone, hardly leaving the door cracked enough to catch a proper glimpse of him.
“What?”
“The photo. Take it. For the chat, so you can get your money when it’s all over.”
You’re stunned for a second. The money hadn’t even crossed your mind; you had just been rambling, hoping to find the right thing to say to get him to unlock the barrier between you two.
Who the fuck even cares about the money anymore?
You do. You’re supposed to. And so is he.
You sigh and pull your phone from your back pocket, and turn your back to him before lifting the camera to capture the two of you. The door creaks open an inch more.
There’s no fun pose. There’s no smiles. There’s nothing. It’s even more lifeless than the first photo taken. You can’t stand to look at it longer than necessary as you send it off to the group.
Just as you turn around to face him again, to try and talk to him, the door shuts again. You can hear the soft click of a lock. The ache is heard, the ache is felt, as you refuse to look back at the wood that still separates you physically, at the emotions that separate you mentally.
You don’t really know why you do it. But you walk out to the living room, deciding against sitting outside the door any longer and continuing to make yourself miserable. Your feet carry you straight to the sliding door of his balcony, and you press outside into the cooler night air, shutting the door behind you.
What happened when I was in the bathroom that night?
The thought haunts you, a new ghost that had been lingering and gathering dust since that night. You never asked anyone, certainly not Eddie, and refuse to overthink it until now. But after tonight, after practically reliving your first encounter with Eddie all over again, the deja vu and the curiosity are winning over.
You dial Steve’s number.
“Hell-”
“Why do me and Eddie hate each other?” you blurt out, cutting off Steve’s greeting.
“I- What?” Steve’s confused, understandably so, “How should I know? I don’t keep a list of every time you rant about him to me.”
“What about him?”
“Okay, you know I love you, but I’m not a mind-read-”
“What about a list of every time he rants about me?”
Silence buzzes through the line, and you glance up at the night sky. It’s a cloudy black. The city pollution hides most of the stars, and from Eddie’s balcony, you can’t locate the moon.
“I also don’t have one of those.”
“Why not? Because, Jesus Christ, Harrington, I have questions-”
“Because he doesn’t rant about you. Especially not to me, but Nancy says he never talks about you usually either,” Steve explains in an even tone, still not sure how his answer should be helping you. You are the one, afterall, with Eddie right now.
Even if he is locked away in his room right now, refusing to speak to you.
“That makes no sense,” you sigh, exasperation creeping its way into your bones, “I rant about him all the time. I’ve bitched to you and Robin more times than I can count about him. He should be doing the same.”
Steve says your name softly, “Why are you asking me this?”
You laugh humorlessly and shake your head, even knowing Steve can’t see you, “It’s stupid. Forget it,” It’s not stupid to you, and you can’t forget it, but this doesn’t concern Steve, “Can I ask you one last question, though?”
“Shoot, babydoll,” you can’t help but grin at that nickname. Steve pulls it out at random, every time he’s trying to make you feel bad. He knows that neither of you can take it seriously.
“Um, that night you introduced me to everyone,” you begin, stepping up to wrap your free hand around the iron railing of Eddie’s balcony, letting the cold seep into your palm, “At the bar, you know?”
“Right…” he encourages, “What about it?”
“Me and Eddie got along,” you spit it out, letting it tear from your chest and score your throat on its way out, “We… we were getting along at first, and then I went to the bathroom, and when I came back, he…. He…”
He was gone. The Eddie I’d first met had vanished. Where’d he go? Why’d he go?
“Shit, your memory is way better than mine,” Steve chuckles, sounding nervous, “But, I mean, I kind of remember that. You two getting along, at least. Guess that’s why we all were really confused when you started hating each other. But I’m still not understanding the question - are you asking if I remember the night? Or if he’s ever talked about it? I was a jock, you’re gonna have to spell it out for my pea brain.”
“Stop insinuating you’re stupid,” you scold on instinct, scowl settling along your features as you lean onto the railing and glance down. It’s only two stories, but the ground feels impossibly far as you ask, “What happened when all us girls went to the bathroom? When we came back, he acted differently. Did he mention hating me that night? Did I leave a bad first impression? Was it all just a joke to hi-”
“Woah, woah, woah. Slow down. One question, remember?” you’re sure Steve can hear the panting in your breath over the line, the way your chest heaves in the memory, “I’ve gotta be honest - I don’t remember. I know that’s probably not the answer you’re looking for, and I don’t know what’s going on with you two right now, but I was already well on my way to drunk. I think Jonathan and Argyle poked some fun at Eddie, maybe teased him about something, but I really can’t recall what it was about. Maybe his hair? Who knows?”
The answer isn’t helpful. It’s only more confusing, more hurtful.
He stopped joking with you because someone made fun of his hair? You lost access to the warmth buried beneath his surface because his friends teased him?
“Okay,” you sound defeated. You feel defeated – defeated by the weight of still feeling like an outsider, defeated by the barrier of some measly wooden door, defeated by the hurt in Eddie’s eyes as you admitted that he only ever hurts you, “Okay, thanks, Steve.”
You hang up before either of you say goodbye. When you pull your phone down from your cheek and ear, you see your phone still open to the photo of Eddie and you that you’d sent to the group.
You were wrong. There wasn’t only nothing. Your face may have been void of all emotions, but now looking at it, you can see Eddie’s isn’t.
He’s looking at you and not the camera during the shot, face crestfallen, eyes nearly teary as the corners of his mouth tucked downward.
He’s looking at you with regret, with sadness. He’s looking at you as if he can see the vines he’d planted in you, all rotted and dusting away, and he’s mourning them just as you had.
It’s bullshit, or your imagination, or your innate need for Eddie to bleed the same way as you have over your entire situation with each other. You lock your phone and don’t bother to look at the photo again as you enter the living room, as you toss your phone onto the loveseat, as you curl up on the couch and don’t even bother to go to ask for a pillow or blanket. He probably wouldn’t answer the door, anyway.
You don’t say goodnight to Eddie, just as he never said goodbye to you the first night, and wonder if he notices the absence of your salutation.
taglist: @catherinnn @haylaansmi @gaysludge @paprikaquinn @manda-panda-monium @audhd-dragonaut @amira0303 @blushingquincy @hellkaisersangel @eddieslittlewh0re @ajkamins @prettyboy200 @munsonzzgf @blue-eyed-lion @digwhatudug @madaboutjoe @wickedslashdivine @sweet-villain @somespicystuff @big-ope-vibes @jadequeen88 @sylviin @emma77645 @notbeforelong @lolalanaie @lo-siento-ama @happy-and-alone @micheledawn1975 @aysheashea @moon-huny @munsonswrld @bambipowerblueaddition @averagestudent03 @bakugouswh0r3 @mattefic @mxcheese @bietchz @nativity-in-black @tlclick73 @stezzil @vngelis @coley0823 @folklorebau @luvmunson86 @theherothesavior @keene200213 @hargrovesswifee @m-chmcl-rmnc @cherrymedicine13 @iunaelumen777
taglist is now closed.
#eddie munson#twenty four hours#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson fic#eddie munson x y/n#feels so short of a chapter haha#angsty babes
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A Sit Down with Jonathan and Nancy Byers about their Book: A Collection of Queer Photography
The title kind of speaks for itself, it's an interview with Jonathan and Nancy about the book after its release.
On AO3.
Ships: jargancy and steddie mentioned
Warnings: talks about racism, ableism, homophobia, positive use of f-slur and d-slur
~~~~~~~~
After being released, the book filled with Jonathan Byers’ photography and featuring writing by his partner Nancy Byers about the lives and queerness of their family of choice between 1986 and 1994, has taken off. Today I sit down and have a chat with them about the reactions to and content of the book.
This book has gotten a lot of attention, did either of you expect that?
JB: I didn’t. I have had some exhibitions in the past and I’ve been hired to shoot plenty of celebrities, but I’m not a big name outside the industry. It was quite a shock to see how many people talked about it. Pleasant, but still.
NB: I agree with Jon. We certainly hoped it would reach the people we wanted it to reach, but we were very realistic in our expectations. I hadn’t written anything big outside of journalism, so it was new for me entirely. To have this success is crazy and surprising. We’re both very grateful for it.
Since it was such a new thing for you, how did you go about it?
NB: I think it was more new for me, since Jon has published some of his other work too. He has been a great help. Everyone has, really.
JB: It was a very collective process in the end. I’ve been wanting to make this book for a long while now, so when we finally got the go ahead we called everyone together to gather stories they wanted to put in it as well. That helped a lot in creating a clear narrative in the end.
You say you’ve been wanting to do this for a long time, how long? How did this idea start?
JB: In 1990 after Nancy had been arrested along with Steve and Eddie. It was just so wrong for them to have been arrested in the first place, everyone was so angry. I took their photo just so we’d all could know how bad it had been, that we didn’t make it up.
I remember wanting to show someone, anyone, to make them look and see it, but we really couldn’t. We were still in college and such things were professional suicide. So, I kept those photos to myself and it became a thing, you know, to record us as we were despite it all. It was also a bit hopeful, I’ll admit. I kept taking the photographs with the mindset that one day, I could show them, that it would get better than it was.
NB: He never really mentioned it at the time, but he did have his camera with him even more often than before. I think that if you look in the book, there are more images after 1990 than before.
That must have been hard at the time. A lot of people mostly know that time as very homophobic. Was that difficult when choosing what to put in the book? Are there things you left out because they were too personal or too much?
NB: We had a lot of talks about what to put in and what to leave out. A lot of the stories we tell are really personal and it is very public. We tried not to leave out the hard parts, we didn’t want to pretend like those times weren’t rough, but certain things people said no to sharing and we obviously respect that.
JB: Yeah, it is collaborative, but it is about private lives. Argyle, for example, got arrested a few times for being a man of color existing, while he gave us permission to share that here, he didn’t want photos of it in the book. Of course, we’re not going to do that.
NB: Exactly. We didn’t say a lot about race, which is obviously such a big point too and we didn’t touch too much on Max’s disability or recovery. We try to be educated about it, but we can’t properly put it into words and those topics can be very sensitive. Since we would have done them a disservice we left them out at points. In hindsight, I don’t know if that was the best move to make, since we don’t want to ignore that it exists, but it is the choice that we made.
Very understandable. You mention a lot that it was a collaborative project, how did that work, since the book is credited to just the two of you?
JB: It was actually quite fun. The book was a great reason to bring everyone together again and reminisce. Me and Nance did most of the work. It is primarily my photography, but we went around to everyone and asked them if they had any photos they would like to see in there or any stories or moments they wanted to tell.
NB: We were mostly editors and writers in the end. I kind of interviewed everyone about those years. And we of course made a list of everything that wasn’t going in the book.
There are indeed a few photographs not made by you, Jonathan. Any comments on that?
JB: I think without them the story wouldn’t be complete, you know. Yeah, it is a book of my photography and we used my name, since I am well known in the industry, but we weren’t telling my story, we were telling our story. As much as it would be cool, I can’t be everywhere all the time and there are certain moments that are important, but I wasn’t a part of.
NB: Plus, I really wanted Jon to be in there as well. He might be more comfortable behind the camera than in front of it, but he is part of our family, not just a witness to it.
That is a beautiful way of looking at it. As you mentioned, it is your story. Did you get any reactions of people that weren’t a part of it or people you know? Anything unexpected?
NB: Uhm, yeah, I- I got a letter from Holly, my little sister. She wrote to Mike and I. Neither of us saw that coming, but it was so nice to hear from her. We hadn’t seen her since she was nine and now she is all grown up, married and kids, the whole picket fence. She is a great mom, honestly and I am sad I didn’t get to see her grow into the strong woman she is today, but I am glad I get to know her now.
Oh wow, that sounds very special. Did she reach out because of the book?
NB: She did, yeah, and it was very special. She saw it in the store and got it. It was kind of crazy to hear from her. I never dreamed something like this could happen, but it did.
And you, Jonathan, any people reaching out unexpectedly?
JB: Not really, haha. Just the usual congrats on the project. Though, it’s success has enabled us to work together with the Trevor Project, which was very exciting. 40% of the proceeds go to them. But beyond that, I think the most unexpected thing to come out of it next to contact with Holly is that Corroded Coffin has gotten a resurgence in popularity.
Eddie Munson is quite a big part of the book. Was that ever an issue, since he has been private in the past?
JB: Eddie hasn’t been private a day in his life, honestly.
NB: Jonathan!
JB: What, it’s true. He’s been singing about Steve’s dick on stage for decades now, the only reason he has ever kept those things about himself a secret is because he liked his career too much. So, no, Eddie is always fun to work with and he was a great sport about the project. He called up all the others to ask for pictures from that time we could use. It was quite funny to get them all. There are so many more of him on the phone with Steve that didn’t make it into the book.
NB: That is true. Eddie is pretty open about a lot of things and he has always been very passionate about being yourself and showing that it’s okay to be different and out there. He was thrilled to be part of this.
I think we were more careful about what we put in about Erica. She hasn’t done anything that is unlawful, but certain people have opinions that will always be more harsh when directed to a black woman. She has worked very hard to be where she is and to be taken serious in that function, the last thing we wanted to do is undermine that.
A lot of critics of the book have said that it promotes crime. Do you have any comment on that?
NB: It’s utter nonsense, honestly. There are some photos that can be said to contain crime, but people must understand the context of those. We would never want to promote harming another person, we just wanted to show that protest and opposing the government and their policies goes hand in hand with doing certain things. As much as I would love for it to be true, you don’t change people’s mind by staying in the lines they drew.
JB: I agree, I think people just want to be mad about something and they know they’ll be called out if they say they dislike it because of the rest of the content.
That could be. Have you received any hate after publishing the book?
JB: I think that’s pretty much unavoidable at this point. I try not to get involved with all the noise on social media.
NB: It’s part of it, but it’s good to focus on the positive reactions too. However, as you might have seen, I have become more active on twitter ever since it came out, since a lot of people will just say stuff that’s completely incorrect. It’s a lot of people from my generation, who still haven’t dealt with their biases, but it’s a scary amount of young people too. Like, truly kids, who have no idea what it was like.
They’ll point at the photos of pride and say we’re promoting unsafe sex and violence, like the whole kink at pride debate isn’t bullshit. BDSM is a big part of the queer community and they don’t have to like it or engage with it, but they were branded as deviants just like us and a lot of queer people are also into kink. I’d rather have a straight dominatrix next to me on the front lines than a young queer kid, who thinks it’s bad to identify as a dyke or a fag.
And even from our own community we’ve been getting some backlash for being polyamorous. It’s like they don’t hear themselves when they speak. I think the book shows that it was very much not the same as cheating and we clearly love each other very much. But people will always have their own opinions, no matter how much it sucks. So, I try to focus on those who tell me that we changed their minds about it.
Did you change a lot of minds? Or other positive reactions?
JB: I think we have, yes. I’ve gotten quite a few message of people thanking me for all the photos I took, how it made them feel better about their own sexuality and feel less alone. It’s amazing to see and it makes me very happy to see and hear. I still remember how alone I felt when I realized who I was and how alone Will always seemed to be. And how good it felt to finally say it and be accepted for it. Especially when more and more people in our friend group also came out.
NB: Exactly that. Growing up queer can make you feel very alone and odd. I never realized it about myself until I was seventeen? Eighteen? But looking back there have always been moments where I felt out of place and odd. It’s one of the reasons I love pride so much, because it makes you feel like you are part of something. To be able to be that for others is amazing. I try to reply to as many of those comments as I can. They deserve the attention more than those who are purposefully ignorant.
That is lovely to hear. Thank you so much for taking the time to answer my questions. Do you have anything you want to say about the book or reactions to it that you haven’t yet?
JB: Thank you for interviewing us. I think I have said what I wanted to say. The book speaks for itself in a lot of ways. I just want to thank everyone who read it for supporting us and reading our story.
NB: Yes, thank you. Of course, I also want to thank anyone who has read the book, it’s been an honor to share it with you all.
#rr writing#a collection of queer photography by jonathan byers#jonathan byers#nancy wheeler#argyle x jonathan x nancy#jargancy#steddie mention#stranger things#eddie lives au#st post season 4#tw: homophobia mention#tw: racism mention#tw: ableism mention#f slur#tw: d slur#d slur#tw: f slur
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What I will never really understand is why the Byers moved to California.
I know that Bob (RIP) floated the idea to Joyce back in season two to move with him but she still stayed in Hawkins (I mean, he got killed so...)
It’s been pointed out that Joyce didn’t have a place to work as most places in Hawkins closed up. But she could have easily moved to Indianapolis and looked for work. It’s a decent sized city and then Jonathan, Will, and El could drive to Hawkins on the weekend. They’d also be in a new place, starting over.
Then some say it was to protect El. Well, uhm, she was going to high school with Will and Jonathan with tons of people around. Were they that confident that the government still had no interest in El even though she didn’t have powers? Like they couldn’t find her under the name Jane Hopper? Then Owens says he chose Lenora because it was far away and in a safe community where no one would look for her. They couldn’t stay in Indiana, just some other town or city? Or even one state away? There’s no way Joyce could afford to live in California without tons of help, and they’d lose their support system.
And how did Hopper know Joyce moved to California? I guess Enzo could’ve looked for her but I don’t know, still seems weird.
Just never made sense to me that the Byers had to move 2000 miles away from their support system.
Joyce had to have known how much her kids were struggling. You cannot ignore the smell of pot lol so how did she not know Jonathan was smoking. El was constantly being bullied and though they don’t give much insight to Will, he probably missed Mike like crazy and might have been bullied too.
Jonathan was smiling in the photos of him and Nancy. The dude never smiled before her, not that happily. Nancy is the love of his life and I can imagine him not shutting up about her when he got high with Argyle.
Joyce cannot be that clueless.
Ugh I’m getting mad again that Nancy and Jonathan were separated for pretty much no reason. But again, it shows just how much Jonathan means to Nancy. She never hung out with Steve after they broke up in season two because she was always with Jonathan. Steve did not exist to her during this time.
To get Steve and Nancy to even interact, Jonathan had to be thousands of miles away.
Steve has matured some, but he still brushes off Nancy’s concerns. After Vecna released her from the trance and she was telling everyone what he showed her, Steve just waved it off saying Vecna was ‘trying to scare you, it’s not real’, and then later on confessing his fantasy that revolves around her, even knowing she’s in love with Jonathan and they’re still together.
And even if they weren’t, it’s still a cringe thing to say.. If anyone confessed that kind of fantasy to me I would be freaked out and angry. Like, how presumptuous of you to assume I’m going to fulfill your dreams? What’s in it for me?
I really wish Nancy could’ve said something to Steve. But she couldn’t.
The love triangle is stupid. Moving the Byers to California was stupid. The Duffers have all these wonderful characters but have zero clue as to what to do with them...
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Getting this in just under the wire for day 1 of @jonmartinweek prompt “Comfy Jumpers”. I get so much joy from writing these two in s1 and thinking “lol you idiots are going to be in love some day.”
*
Martin knows that Jon doesn’t approve of the way he dresses.
It’s not exactly a surprise. Jon doesn’t approve of much about Martin: his report-writing, his Latin translations, even his very existence seems to irk Jon at times. Frankly, the feeling is mutual. Martin was perfectly happy working in the library, where his boss wasn’t an overbearing perfectionist arsehole, and if he’d been given a choice in the matter he’d still be shelving books and updating the filing systems, not getting glared at for his clothing choices. He’s well aware that Jon never wanted him in the Archives either, but they’re here now, so Mister Head Archivist is just going to have to live with it. They’re both going to have to.
Jon isn’t subtle about his displeasure; it’s difficult to miss his pointed scowls at Martin’s scuffed trainers and graphic-print t-shirts. And considering that Sasha wears jeans and t-shirts some days as well—though admittedly she tends to plain colors or muted prints, rather than retro video game characters—it’s pretty clear that it’s less about the clothes than it is the person wearing them.
Well, Jon can scowl all he wants, because everything Martin wears technically falls within the Institute’s dress code and there’s not a word Jon can say to him.
Martin has always run hot, so as winter closes in and other people are bundling up in heavy coats and jumpers, he throws hoodies over his t-shirts and zips them up only far enough that the bright graphic prints are still clearly visible to Jon’s critical eye.
Yeah, he thinks sometimes when he walks into Jon’s office, get an eyeful of Yoshi and see how you like it.
Jon, for his part, seems determined to outlast the winter in his usual dress shirt and tweed jacket combo. Martin knows that Jon isn’t particularly warm blooded—he’s seen the way the man huddles into his jacket like a tortoise in its shell until the central heating warms the basement up in the mornings—but he still refuses to add so much as an argyle sweater vest to his outfit in deference to the season.
The only concession Jon makes to the weather is a voluminous gray overcoat and a dark purple scarf, which he takes off the moment he gets into the office, regardless of how cold it is before the ancient heating system creaks to life.
And, well, it’s none of Martin’s business if his boss is too much of a pompous arse to dress appropriately for the weather. If he wants to freeze his backside off to maintain his academic dignity, far be it from Martin to intervene. Martin doesn’t feel sorry for him, when he sees Jon blowing on his fingers to warm them up, or briskly rubbing his arms while he waits for the kettle to boil and he thinks nobody else is around. Not in the slightest.
It’s below zero on the day in December when the central heating finally gives up the ghost. Even Martin can feel the chill in the Archives this morning, keeps his hoodie zipped up all the way even when he runs into Jon in the kitchenette. Jon looks miserably cold, his shoulders hunched and his movements stiff as he makes his tea.
“Morning, Jon,” Martin says cheerfully. “Bit nippy, isn’t it?”
“Just a bit,” says Jon sardonically. Somewhere overhead, there’s a metallic clanking as the heating system starts up.
“Finally,” Jon mutters, casting his eyes upward. The pipes creak and clank some more, and there’s an odd whirring sound that Martin’s fairly sure isn’t normal, and then a long, descending groan into silence.
“Oh,” says Martin. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“Bloody hell,” says Jon, and storms off to his office. A while later, he sends an email to inform them all that he’s spoken to Elias and the heating is out for the whole building, and that they should all feel free to work from home for the rest of the day if they choose. Sasha and Tim waste no time packing up, but Martin lingers, agonizing over which notes and references he should take with him. He’s never before had a job where working from home was an option, and he isn’t Tim or Sasha, isn’t someone Jon trusts and actually wanted to work with. Martin needs to make sure he gets it right.
At last he thinks he has everything he needs, but still Martin is hesitating, fiddling with the strap of his satchel. Maybe he should just check in with Jon before he leaves, make sure there isn’t anything else he needs to do. Make sure Jon knows I’m going to be working today, not just skiving off.
The door to Jon’s office is standing ajar; Martin taps on it, and pokes his head in without waiting for a response.
Jon looks up as he walks in, his expression startled. He is wearing a jumper. A chunky knit jumper in a warm maroon color, with a Christmas tree and several reindeer on the front. One of the reindeer has a red bobble for a nose. The jumper is oversized, the ends of the sleeves falling past Jon’s wrists.
It’s...incredibly cute, which is not a term that Martin ever expected to associate with his arsehole boss. Attractive, in a severe, unattainable way, sure, but not cute. Yet somehow, here they are.
“Ah, Martin,” Jon says, looking flustered. “I, uh, I thought you’d left with the others?”
“I was—I just wanted to check in with you first, make sure you didn’t need anything. You should head home too, it’s freezing in here.”
“I—I’m perfectly fine.” Jon plucks at the front of the jumper, looking embarrassed. “This is, ah, I bought this for the Institute Christmas party, but it’s surprisingly warm—and quite comfortable.”
“Oh, that’s, uh, that’s not part of your usual wardrobe then?” Martin hazards a chuckle, and to his relief, Jon huffs an amused breath. He raises a hand to adjust his glasses, but his sleeve gets in the way; he pushes both sleeves up to the elbows, and oh no, that’s even cuter.
“No, not—not usually,” he says. Martin frowns, suddenly remembering.
“You didn’t wear it at the party last week, though?”
“No, it’s—it was from the previous year, when I was in Research. It-it didn’t seem appropriate this year, being in a management role. Fortunately I still had it in a box, though I, uh, I didn’t really expect anyone to see me in it.”
Martin feels a sudden pang of something that might be sympathy. He understands how it feels, the desperate pressure to be professional, to be taken seriously, the constant second guessing of what you’re doing, whether you’re giving away something you shouldn’t. It’s hardly the same, of course: Jon’s not likely to be fired for wearing a silly jumper. But...Martin gets it.
“Actually,” he lies, “I, uh, I have to meet with Sophie up in the library later, so I’m around for the day. I was just going to go out and pick up some early lunch. Thought I’d see if you want anything?”
“Oh, ah, where are you going?” Jon asks tentatively, looking surprised at the offer.
“I was thinking of that cafe just around the corner—maybe get some soup and a sandwich?”
“That would be...very nice, actually. If you’re sure you don’t mind?”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I did,” says Martin, and takes the ten pound note Jon offers him.
“Thank you, Martin,” says Jon, and it’s the probably the most sincere thing Martin’s ever heard him say. He finds himself smiling without meaning to.
“Not a problem.”
It’s too early for lunch, really, but Martin knows Jon never eats breakfast and he missed it himself this morning. He gets two portions of steaming tomato and basil soup and toasted cheese sandwiches from the cafe, and when he gets back, Jon’s found a small space heater to plug in, so his office is marginally warmer than the rest of the Archives. They sit on opposite sides of Jon’s desk to eat, talking about the case that Martin’s working on. It’s the first time Martin’s actually had the chance to properly discuss a case, rather than stumbling through his report while Jon watches expectantly; Jon listens, and asks questions, and even offers some helpful suggestions for Martin’s follow up. It’s...oddly nice.
(Jon also continues to look unreasonably cute in his oversized Christmas jumper, but Martin carefully ignores that.)
The heating gets fixed by early afternoon, and the Archives warm up to the point where Martin can unzip his hoodie. When he drops off his finished case report to Jon’s office, Jon is back in his shirt and jacket, the maroon jumper packed away out of sight. He looks perfectly staid and professional once again. I saw you looking cute, though, Martin thinks, and then tries to pretend he didn’t; he is not going down that route.
Jon glances up when Martin comes in, taking in the “Marvin the Martian” t-shirt that’s now visible beneath his hoodie. Instead of a disapproving scowl, however, he gives a small, hesitant smile.
“Thank you, Martin,” he says as he takes the report, and something flutters warm in Martin’s chest.
Oh no, he thinks.
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Dalton Big Bang day 22 - That’s What We’re Here For
Writing Masterpost, AO3 Link
Notes: Logan in therapy is a thing I care about very deeply and he needs a good therapist to help him out. Did you really think I'll write about anyone else in therapy?
"This is Dr. Blake's office," Johnny told Logan as they left the horrid medicinal smell of the office building and entered a room that could best be described as what would happen if a unicorn projectile-vomited.
Well, maybe he was exaggerating a little, but still! The walls were a light lilac color, decorated with fairy lights and childish doodles painted on colorful paper; the wall near the door had several bookcases on it, full of crafting supplies and tabletop games and books Logan didn't care to check out, and next to them was a white desk with two colorful chairs right up against the wall.
There were also a small coffee table and a light blue suede couch opposite the desk and chairs. The couch was covered with plushies and there was a soft blanket folded neatly on the armrest. That was the biggest offender in his opinion. That couch in particular.
On that couch sat a young man, about somewhere in his thirties, sipping a cup of tea and looking straight at Logan. He sported slightly messy light brown hair, in a way that still seemed intentionally so, and frameless glasses that sat high on the bridge of his nose; Logan believed that, had the glasses been different, maybe his green argyle sweater vest and khaki pants combo would look less nerdy and more… well, more like something. Anything, really.
"Dr. Blake," John greeted the man, nodding a bit as a courtesy.
"Senator Wright." His voice was calm, but as his face broke into a smile Logan could hear it change into something else. "And this must be John—"
"Logan."
"Yes, of course. Excuse me." As the therapist stood up, Logan could see him grab a cane he hasn't seen before, that until now was resting on the small table. At a closer glance, he could see the man's leg wrapped in a bandage of some sort. "It's nice to meet you, Logan. I'm Arin Blake, you can call me Arin, or Dr. Arin, or Dr. Blake if you so fancy, I honestly wouldn't mind."
"Yeah…"
"Don't fuck this one up," Johnny threatened Logan as he turned to leave. "Your psychiatrist recommended him to us. Don't make her regret it—"
"Actually, Senator, I'd rather you joined us today."
The man was already on his phone by then, but at least he didn't leave, which meant he listened probably. Still surprised at the suggestion though, which showed on his face. Logan just scowled as he went to sit on the truly offensive couch - as instructed by the doctor - and grabbed a cat plushie to hold.
A brown cat plushie, not too fluffy, with embroidered black eyes and a stupid expression.
Kinda reminds him of Julian. In a way. He's not sure which.
"In order to understand what we're working on here, I'd like to also hear your side of the story," Blake continued as he sat down in a chair in front of them. Johnny took the other side of the couch. "Can I offer you coffee, tea? Water?"
"Coffee is fine," Logan shrugged.
"To me as well."
"Just remind me for a moment, which medication are you prescribed?"
Logan may have rolled his eyes at that.
"Prozac, and I'm starting to take adderall soon."
"I see…" he hummed to himself as he got up and left the office, leaving Logan and Johnny in uncomfortable silence.
Dr. Blake's cup of tea was in a big blue mug, decorated with a print of tiny cartoon citrus slices. A clear plastic teaspoon stuck a bit over the top, and Logan inspected the little tag on the tea bag. Hibiscus apple cinnamon. Sounds fancy enough.
He just about took his phone out and started playing something when Blake came back, hopping on one leg almost, and put two disposable cups in front of them. Johnny's was a cup of coffee. His, though…
"I asked for coffee."
"And isn't this it?"
He took a sip. "It's… it's fine." It wasn't. There was too much milk, he could tell just by looking it. This was just a confirmation. "Thanks."
"So how about you both tell me why you're here?" The doctor sat back down in his chair, waiting for an answer.
"I don't know if you've heard in the news, but there was a fire at Logan's school—"
"Don't act like that's the reason we're here." Logan waited for his father to get red in the face. He always did. So he just leaned back and counted the seconds. "You brought me here because you think that everything wrong in your life is the result of me simply existing, and your only excuse to actually do it is that the people you dumped me on when you couldn't bother with keeping me around anymore can't look after me now."
"How do you think people would have reacted to my campaign if they knew—"
"Oh, come on, not everything is about your FUCKING JOB!"
"Okay, okay, Logan put that cup down." He did as he was told. After all, he can't fuck this one up, can he? "Now, without exploding on each other, please tell me what's going on."
"Logan's school burned down back in March—"
"February."
"—and he's only been getting worse since. He's always had anger issues, but since then he won't stop acting out. Usually over quite… petty things too."
Blake pushed his glasses further up, if that was even possible. "Petty things like what?"
"Like…" Johnny faltered, fumbling for words. So Logan spoke for him.
"Like that time last week when I asked if I can go visit my friend in California and you said I can't because what if his mom says no."
"Ms. Larson is a very busy woman, Logan. You can't just expect her to let you stay over because you wanted to on a whim."
"Well, I'm not five anymore, I don't think it really matters so much whether or not she can—"
"Let's stop it right there, again, Logan." Dr. Blake's stare made Logan curl up into himself. "Repeat that, now calmly."
Logan swallowed rather hard before talking again.
————
"Tell me a little about your friends," Dr. Blake asked at another meeting, about five weeks later. Logan sat on the chair closest to the desk, hugging the cat plushie again, and focused on drawing some flowers.
Lily of the valley. It was the only flower he could draw well. And isn't that just sad.
"There's Derek," he started, drawing the stems. "He… well, if he put half as much energy into caring for himself as he does for caring for me, I think the world would be a much better place. I think he's trying to compensate for this with girlfriends. It's kind of worrying, to be honest."
"But he cares for you?"
"Yeah. Sometimes a bit too much. It's… it's funny, actually, because… he really needs to work on himself. He can't fix me no matter how much he tries, because he's not some miracle worker and my mental health isn't fixable—"
"But it is treatable. And that's what we're here for."
"Yeah. I just… I find it funny, because he spends so much time trying to fix me that he's completely ignoring himself, and then he goes off and thinks having a girlfriend is a good replacement for self care. But I can't just tell him that… he'll get upset and then say it's not important and I'm just obsessing over it because reasons, and then when I get upset over not understanding he says it's my anger issues and I should be medicated."
"And why do you think he's doing this?"
This was the type of question that Logan quickly learned Blake loved asking. 'Why do you think', 'why do you feel', as if he wasn't the expert here. It was weird, having someone interested in his opinion without calling it anger issues and shutting him up, or telling him it's stupid and all that. He wasn't sure he could get used to it, but he certainly felt like he was, and it scared him.
"I think… I think he's just worried… he has anxiety, and I think he's reflecting it onto others because he doesn't know how to deal with it himself…? I know his parents don't know how to. So neither does he."
"And your other friend?"
Logan put down his pencil and picked a yellow one, throwing Blake a look.
"Julian is… he's cool. I miss him, I haven't seen him in months and he can't come over for vacation because his mother won't let him."
"Is he just cool?"
"I mean… he's one of my best friends, so… he's cool. He's very snarky sometimes… well, most of the time… and we talked about it a while ago, about why he's like this, and it was before revising my diagnosis, and he didn't really understand that I was insulting him back as a fight or flight response and he thought I was enjoying it… umm…"
Blake just pushed a mug closer to Logan. It was a clear mug, full of a bright red liquid. The hibiscus apple cinnamon tea. He made it for Logan today, as an attempt to get him to like something with no caffeine. Apparently coffee was bad for adderall. He assumed it'll be okay though.
"We're working on it now. And he needs physical therapy, so it's not like we really can do it in person, but we call each other every day and stuff…"
"You should visit him, then," the doctor suggested, making Logan snort.
"I don't think he wants me around… his boyfriend is there to keep him company. It's fine. Well… not his boyfriend. I'm not sure what they are. It's complicated, I think. Jules says they're not dating but they sure have a—"
"Dearie, are you jealous?"
He just laughed again. "Of Julian? Nope. Not in a million years. Of Sebastian? I… I don't actually know. I mean, he and Julian aren't together even if sometimes it feels like it, and Jules did say I'm his best friend and stuff, but on the other hand he makes him happy, and…"
"And being jealous is okay, so long as you put it into a healthy outlet and not into anger. Talk to Julian about it. See what he thinks and says."
"But… we talked about it… kind of… he said he's in love with me, but it wasn't at a very ideal situation, and… we agreed to not talk about it. Just… let ourselves work through it, figure out what we really feel… what he really feels… and then we'll see where we go from there."
"That's good. But ask him for clarification, okay? Don't make your head spin like this."
Logan just nodded along, grabbing a blue pencil to shade in the flowers themselves.
"So I think I'm going to visit Julian soon," he continues. "I'll ask Derek to join me too… maybe I can buy him a gift…"
"That's a nice idea. What does he like?"
"He likes… cats, and candy… maybe I can get him new sunglasses. I think he'll like sunglasses. Or coffee…"
"Is coffee a gift?"
"Expensive coffee, maybe."
The doctor just laughed. "How about starting small… what about flowers?"
"...I can get him flowers…"
"That you can. I fear we're running out of time, though." Logan looked up from his drawing, a bit disappointed. "We can keep talking about this next week too, okay?"
"Okay… sorry for wasting time like this."
"You've wasted no time, dearie. It's all good. Just remind your father to write me a check, yeah?"
————
Logan crashed on the blue suede couch and covered himself all the way up over his head the second he made it to Dr. Blake's office that day. Sure, he was still wearing his huge coat — New York was especially snowy this winter, like, much more than usual — but he didn't really want to show his face to the world, and the receptionist who asked him to wait earlier was on the receiving end of his panic attack. It wasn't fair to the others, and it just… it wasn't…
"Do you want me to make you tea, dearie?" Blake asked him, rubbing his back. He sounded worried.
Logan just nodded and whimpered.
"Okay… try to breathe while I'm gone, okay? In for four, hold for four, out for four. Think you can do that?"
He nodded again.
"I'll be right back."
As Logan waited for Blake to come back, he started crying again. Winter vacation wasn't treating him too well, between fighting with Julian back at school right before coming home and getting yelled at by his father for flirting with the son of an associate (well, the guy was pretty cute, and certainly down to fuck) and probably the cherry on top, he was late. It wasn't as bad as the others, but he was late to this appointment, and he had so much to talk about, and…
"Logan, can you hear me?" Blake asked after what felt like forever, holding his hand. Logan whimpered again in response. "Come on, let's breathe together. I'll count."
He didn't even feel how long it took before he was sitting up, a second, weighted blanket on his shoulder, drinking his tea. Dr. Blake was still there, helping wipe his cheeks with a tissue as Logan tried to calm down.
"...Julian and I had a fight."
"Okay… what was it about?"
"I… I tried talking to him again, about… about us, and our relationship, and where does our friendship go, and he screamed at me that he's tired of talking about it and that I need to stop bringing it up, that he's with Sebastian and that's it, and then I yelled back and I… I may have slapped him, but…"
"That's bad, dearie. You know it's bad."
"I know! And I hate myself, I hate myself so much for doing this! He doesn't deserve a friend like me, I'm… I'm possessive and an asshole, and he just…"
"Okay, here's where you're wrong," the doctor told him, taking one of his hands. "You're wonderful, Logan. You're a great friend, and Julian didn't tell you he hates you. He didn't say you're terrible."
"But he implied it."
"He did not. It was an intrusive thought. What did Julian say, exactly?"
"...he… he said it's, he said that he's tired of talking about it, and that… that he already has a boyfriend, so I can't... " He hiccuped.
"Exactly… nothing about you as a friend. Open your phone and call him for me, okay? I want you to talk to him, and I want to see you do it."
Logan just nodded, a bit hesitant. He fumbled with his phone, trying to avoid looking at Julian's number, but ultimately he just… did.
Julian answered at the third ring.
"Hey, Lo."
"Hey…" he sniffled a bit. "I just… I need clarification on… on something." He looked at Blake for approval, wiping his eyes with a finger. Blake just nodded.
"Sure, what's up…?"
"Just… when we… had the fight. And you screamed at me and I screamed back, and…" Logan took a second. "Jules, do you hate me?"
"...are you high right now? Seriously. Are you?"
"No… I'm in… never mind."
"Okay... Lolo, I can't hate you. You're my best friend, you know how much I love you, but sometimes I can get mad or frustrated. Just like you do." He could hear the disappointment in Julian's voice almost. "I'm with Sebastian now. I'm happy with him. I love you, I really do, but you constantly asking me if I'm sure I'm happy and if we can give it a chance is getting tiring. I'm sorry, but it's getting really difficult."
"I… I'm sorry… Jules, I—"
"I accept your apology. I'm not mad at you, you don't have to get so anxious about this. You're starting to act like Derek."
"I'm still sorry…" he could finally take a breath, looking at his therapist for approval again. "That's… that's all I… I'm just in therapy, and…"
"Okay… go back to therapy. Don't waste time talking to me. I love you."
"Yeah… me too."
Logan hung up after that and turned to sip his tea, which has now cooled down.
And then the doctor spoke. "I'm proud of you. You don't need to apologize so much, you're doing just fine, but you did great. I'm so proud."
"Thanks." Logan forced a smile.
Maybe… maybe things would be okay, at the end of it all. He sure hoped so.
————
"I'm going to ask Julian out," Logan announced one day, two years into seeing Blake, just waltzing into the office. He may have caught his doctor by surprise, but as he sat down and grabbed his cat plushie, Blake straightened back up and cleared his throat.
"Doesn't he have a boyfriend, though?"
"Not anymore! And he said he doesn't want a rebound but then we talked about it and—"
"Okay, slow down. Let's start from the top. Julian broke up with his boyfriend?"
Logan nodded, then started rambling — "apparently they grew apart, at least it's what he told me, but I'm kinda pretty sure Sebastian cheated on him with Blaine? Blaine is my ex, he's kinda… meh. But yeah. So they broke up, like, three weeks ago, and Jules said he doesn't want a rebound so fast after the relationship, but I can build up to it! I can… I can start talking to him about it, right?" — all while Dr. Blake listened, nodding along to what he was saying.
"...okay… we can build up to that, then. I can help you do it if you're nervous about it."
"I'm really nervous about this…"
"Okay, okay, I can help. But first, how was your week? I made you tea."
"I saw that, thank you, but…" his stomach fell. "My week was so boring… college is boring. I have an exam in two weeks that I'm not sure I'm ready for, Alex had a mental breakdown the other day that I had to help with because nobody else was around, my dad visited…"
"And how is your dad?" Logan rolled his eyes at this question. "No, no no no. You answer me. How is your dad?"
"He still thinks I'm gay for the rebellion part of it. I mean, he'll get over it, I have faith in Michelle to make him change his mind, but… he and Michelle visited, and it was really nice. I missed both of them so much. But the second he saw my friends again he started talking shit, because Drew's voice dropped a lot since the last time they met and he started making transphobic remarks and it was… it was bad. It was so bad."
"Did you help Drew out?"
"Yeah… and then my dad got mad at me and we went into a screaming match. But it's okay, Michelle… did her best to get us to talk. I think he understands it now… not the gay thing, but… the transgender thing."
"That's good…"
Logan opened his phone right before the end of the session, as Blake was reminding him to remind his father to pay and that next week they'll talk in video chat, same day same hour. He nodded along, looking through to his messages to Julian — there — and getting up and out.
Lolo: I know you said you don't want to get back at it this early, but when you're ready, wanna go on a proper date…?
Lolo: also, can we talk about something? I have an exam soon and I'm anxious as shit
He kept staring at it as he went downstairs and to his car, watching the text on the screen dance with a pain in his chest.
J is typing...
#kylo cant write#daltonfic#daltonficbigbang#day 22 - therapy#logan in therapy is obvious but so good#logan needs help folksies#also his therapist is heavily inspired by bdg because why not
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A Milder March- Cleaning
From the #A Milder March prompt list:
3/23- Cleaning
Being stuck in one place was next to unbearable, in Crowley’s book. The only thing worse would be if Aziraphale weren’t here to spend the time-- too much time; so much time, with not enough to do-- with him.
The only complaint he had was that Aziraphale was used to living in a state of what Crowley would call ‘comfortable clutter’. Which was all very well and good-- in his shop. But they were sheltering in place together in Crowley’s flat, and everywhere he turned, it felt like, Aziraphale had ended up laying, stacking, or leaving behind something he’d summoned forth from thin air. It was enough to drive him slightly-- more than slightly-- mad.
Books had appeared on every flat surface, some laid open, some with markers in them, and one, notably, spread out on his desk, the binding in the process of being redone, and glue dripping onto the polished surface of the desktop.
It didn’t matter that either one of them could simply twitch their wrist and it would be fixed-- it hadn’t been done, and it was worrying under Crowley’s skin like a festering splinter.
And if that was the only one, he might ignore it, but it was every room, everywhere-- anywhere he went to for some quiet and control, Aziraphale would follow him for company, and leave a mess in his wake.
An Argyle blanket left under the plants, where Aziraphale had worn it in round his shoulders against the natural chill of the stone walls, and dropped it in his delight at the way some of Crowley’s plants had begun to bloom in response to the Angel’s presence.
The kitchen was a veritable graveyard of empty cups and crumb ridden plates. The bathroom had a damp towel still draped over the toilet-- partially because neither of them needed to use it, and partially because Aziraphale had gotten distracted.
And that was really all this was. Aziraphale got distracted and Crowley’s flat got cluttered, and that was all there was to it.
And Crowley, being as English as one could be when one was around before ever England existed, had done his best to not be bothered by it. But now he was sitting on the bed, the blankets drawn up around him to cut out his view of the mess that was taking over his life, and he was hyperventilating, having a true and proper freak out about the state of the place.
“Crowley, where did-- oh, oh dear.”
Crowley felt as the bed dipped with Aziraphale’s weight, and he could feel his heat radiating through the blanket. He squeezed his eyes closed and did his best to get himself under control, to scrape his self control back together so that he didn’t offend-- or worse, hurt Aziraphale. He didn’t need to know what the matter was.
“Crowley, darling, what’s the matter? Can you tell me? I want to help.”
He was so sweet and so genuinely concerned, it only made Crowley feel more horrible for feeling horrible. He burrowed further into the blankets, drawing them up until his face was all but obscured.
“Is it being inside? Are you feeling cooped up? No?” Aziraphale spoke as Crowley shook his head.
A silence descended, and finally Crowley stuck his head out, horrified to see how upset Aziraphale looked.
“Is it me, then? You want me to go back to mine? I can, if you need the space.” He spoke quietly, evenly, and so measuredly that it was obviously hiding a deep sadness at just the thought.
Quick as a striking-- well, him-- Crowley’s hands shot out of their duvet shell to grasp Aziraphale’s where they lay in his lap.
“No.” He said firmly. “I want you here, I love having you here. I love you. It’s just--” He looked around the room, trying to find the right words, and Aziraphale’s gaze followed his.
“Oh, Crowley, darling, why didn’t you say?” He asked, catching on. He tugged his hand away, gesturing upwards to begin clearing it up.
“Wait,” Crowley started, still feeling guilty and ashamed. But Aziraphale waited just the same, waited to hear him out.
“I-- this is stupid but… I’m all but itching to clean it up… like the humans. I mean, if anything’s rotted or gone bad, by all means but. I want to fold and organize and wash and dust, all of it.”
Crowley’s cheeks had gone pink, much to his eternal annoyance, and at Aziraphale’s disbelieving chuckle, he let his gaze fall to his own lap.
“Nevermind,t hat’s dumb. Go ahead and just--”
“Dearest.” Aziraphale interrupted him firmly. “I’m not mocking you. I find it… genuinely endearing. But yes, let’s-- it’s a good activity for the afternoon. And you can turn on your Marie Kondo while we go, to set the mood.”
Crowley felt his lips being tugged upwards.
“You don’t have to help if you don’t want-- you’re welcome to read while I--”
“While you go around, cleaning up my messes?” Aziraphale asked, tsking. “What sort of partner would I be if I allowed such a thing? Besides. I should know the effort it takes to clean this all up, to discourage me from doing more of it. And… I will need to know where you put everything. No, I’m afraid that we’re together in this, too. If you’ll have me.”
Crowley got to his feet and offered Aziraphale his hand.
“Always, Angel.”
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Upload (Argyle Robeast Verse)
The, uh, the backstory, if you will. (There's a smidge of Lotor ship vibes but that's verse dependant, ignore that if timeline, ships or plot contradict it XD)
Tw for vague non-specific torture and kinda sorta death
Argyle's worst nightmares of being captured by the Druids couldn't hold a candle to the real thing.
Plad had always warned him that a traitor to the Empire would be given no mercy, and his bailing and then later being seen working with Voltron was considered evidence enough to condemn him.
He'd cried, he'd begged, all of it fell on deaf ears as masked figures preformed various painful tests on him. He was so scared. He'd never been so scared.
Then came the questions. What was Voltron planning? What route were they on, now? Which planets had aligned themselves against the Empire? What was Prince Lotor trying to archive?
Argyle was loyal and brave, but he was mortal. He might have told them all he knew in a desperate attempt to stop the pain. But he refused to betray Lotor. All the others, much as he liked them, he would have been too weak to save them. His resolve would have failed in the face of this torment.
But he'd do anything to protect Lotor. He'd withstand any torture for Lotor's sake. And the universe itself rested on Lotor's plans to destroy Zarkon and bring peace to the Empire.
So Argyle said nothing. Only sobs and screams left his mouth as the pain increased.
Then it stopped. Argyle sagged in his bounds, breathing hard as sweat dripped onto the floor. Was it over? Stars, he hoped it was over. He wished they'd kill him and be done with it.
He had no such luck. The door slid open to reveal the single person Argyle feared most in the world.
"...H- High Priestess," he breathed, ears pressed flat against his head and eyes wide with terror.
"I've been told that you're being difficult, Officer Sok." The witch narrowed her cold eyes.
"...Please. Please, just... just kill me. I'm of no use to you. Please." Argyle hated himself. He hated how weak and cowardly he was. He hated that he was pathetic enough to plead for mercy from a creature known to lack it.
He absolutely burned with self loathing, the feeling even overpowering his fear for a moment. His father had been right, all along. He was soft and worthless. And now he was paying the price for deviation from the Galra mold. Just like Plad had always said he would.
Haggar took his head roughly in her dry withered hands, and his fear returned in full force. Her eyes were frigid and strangely empty, holding nothing but malice and the mildest kind of disinterested curiosity. She looked at Argyle as if he were an insect pinned down for dissection. Even though she was shorter than him, Argyle felt very, very small under that gaze.
"No. You are mistaken. Nothing is without use to me. Not even a spineless deserter like you."
He opened his mouth to beg again, but the words slipped away as she... It felt like she had reached into his brain and tore his memories out to look at them. The sensation hurt in a way he couldn't put into words, and made him feel incredibly violated and helpless.
Haggar suddenly made a frustrated noise and dropped his head. "What are you?"
Argyle didn't understand the question, so he wouldn't have answered even if he were coherent enough to speak.
"No one can withstand me. No Galra, at least." When she still got no answer from him, she turned to the nearest Druid. "Report on your results."
Argyle was losing his grip on consciousness by this point, his brain pretty well scrambled by Haggar's intrusion. He only got parts of the conversation.
"...blood results... very interesting..."
"...could not access... only vague location of Voltron..."
"...do with him?"
"...project..."
"...Altean... compromise...?"
"...experiment..."
And that was all he managed to hear.
When Argyle awoke, he was secured to a different apparatus. There was machinery behind him, but he couldn't see it. More importantly, Haggar and a Druid were behind some controls.
"You failed to serve your Emperor before," Haggar said. "But now you finally will be made useful to him. You will be freed from your weak and inferior body, and given one that will make you the solider you were meant to be."
Argyle struggled, but he couldn't get loose. Tears of pure fear ran down his face. "Please, High Priestess-"
"Silence!"
Her tone made Argyle instantly shut down. He hung his head and cried some more.
"You are a disgrace to both your races. But that is about to change."
Confusion dawned in his half-aware mind, and Argyle managed to raise his head. "Both?"
That was the last word that ever left his mouth.
Suddenly, Argyle's entire existence was nothing but excruciating pain. Far worse than anything they'd done to him so far. Worse than anything he'd ever felt. His vision went blank white, and his ears were consumed by a rushing sound and someone screaming. Wait, not someone. Him. He was screaming.
He was almost numb with the agony, but he could still feel the separation as it happened. His mind, his soul, they were being violently ripped away from his body. He tried to stop it, but his willpower was gone. His essence was being forcibly shoved into the machine behind him.
He ran out of voice to scream with, and then his body went limp as he left it.
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ThePedanticRomantic Rebuttal: “Traps” Don’t Exist And Here’s Why
youtube
This video has been out for a month, so maybe nobody cares about it. I made a previous debunking, but decided to re-do it. If you still care, you’ve come to the right place. If you don’t, then why are you still reading? There’s two other rebuttals on this, one which I’ll link because I liked the video, the other I won’t because... I didn’t.
First thing’s first, kudos to PR for clarifying the Lily Hoshikawa situation. Really frustrated at people trying to weave Lily into what she isn’t. Unfortunately, that’s about the only good thing I have to say about this video.
Second thing, before we move onto The Beef. Neither Astolfo nor Ferris/Felix Argyle are nonbinary/trans. Astolfo does use they/them pronouns sometimes and their gender is listed as a secret sometimes, but they also use he/him pronouns, and get listed as male. Astolfo has a very teasing personality, liking to mess with people, and that’s painting the medium by reflecting that mindset in some of the official guides and stuff. That’s the exact same tier of joke as a girl’s character sheet listing her weight as “that’s rather rude to ask”, but you somehow believed that was an official sources even though that only happens sometimes.
The Felix situation is even more blatant ignoring of the actual character. The reason Felix acts girly is because Crusch, the lady of house Karsten, is something of a tomboy and people expecting her to act like a real lady gets in the way of her work. They made a promise to each other, with Felix lending Crusch his “knightly side” and Crusch lending Felix her “girlish side”, so Crusch would be unobstructed in her duties and Felix could excel at serving her better. Demanding to be called Ferris and declaring himself a “pretty girl” is part of this, so he could seem more feminine and “make up for” Crusch and otherwise hold up the promise. Blocking secondary sex characteristics is also this. If he went through puberty and became more man-ish, that would break the promise because he couldn’t be girlish like what he promised. Felix doesn’t actually identify as a girl. He outright says he is a man “in both body and soul” and one chapter is outright titled “Felix Argyle is a pretty boy”.
ThePedanticRomantic used Lily’s backstory, context, and character to point out how she was trans, but completely glossed over all of that for Astolfo and Felix to lie about them being nonbinary and trans respectively. It’s incredibly transparent (pun not intended), because Lily’s explanation takes the first 5 minutes of the video, Astolfo gets 10 seconds, and Felix gets a minute.
Second, the video really bothers me as someone who is vaguely interest in language, lexicon, and all that junk. Pedantic spends several minutes talking about how Trap evolved from “crossdressing boys who make pingy feel funny” to trans and other similar identities too, making the point that the language is too fluid to just say “well that one’s wrong”... But then she says that because it’s gone too far, it’s unable to be reclaimed or used non-offensively? That’s doublethink so bad I got whiplash and am now typing from the hospital. Language can have multiple uses, but still have “wrong” use. Like, let’s look at “Lterally.”
Speaking on strict terms, Literally means “exactly, without exaggeration”. “That bear was literally nine feet tall”. But people also use literally in a figurative sense. “That bear was literally the size of a house”. I’m sure there’s a proper word for this, but it’s taken on a slang connotation. Both of those sentences were “correct” in that they both flow correctly, and you get what the person means, but by the book, the second person was incorrect because that’s not what the word means, and they stretched it for some purpose.
Similarly, let’s look at “trap”. “Bridget from Guilty Gear is a trap” is correct because this fits the original definition of the term, and the intent of the usage aligns with what the majority of people mean when they say this, contrary to what the video would have you believe. “Erica Anderson from Catherine is a trap” is incorrect because she, a trans girl, doesn’t fit the original definition of the term, and even though you know what people are egging at when they say this, they are the minority, and the vast majority would agree that they are using the word wrong, in addition to the fact that they’re probably dicks or at the very least misinformed.
Additionally, Jasou and Otokonoko, while I like those words and a buddy o’ mine even uses them frequently, are not the solution. First of all, you even said that the history included both crossdressing men, and trans women. So does Trap and Drag Queen and any other word implying some degree of not conforming to gender roles. This seems to be saying that Jasou and Otokonoko are “good” simply because they haven’t been “tainted” yet. Tying into the second point, what’s to stop transphobes and Edgy People and other buttheads from adopting Jasou and Otokonoko and use those to refer to trans people. At best, we’re just rotating words and sooner or later, we’ll be right back at square one. At worst, you’re actively ringing a dinner bell for them. You know that these kinds of people love jumping on “safe words”, mandating a newer, gooder word that doesn’t have offensive connotation will just encourage them to use it in an offensive sense, and then we’re back to square one.
Perhaps the biggest one of all though, ties back into the idea I discussed with Literally. The intention of the user matters a whole lot. Trap alone is just a word with a few implications and meanings attached, but it’s nothing until someone applies it, and what it’s applied to. If a person calls a crossdressing anime boy a trap, that’s not transphobic. If a person calls a transgender anime girl a trap, that’s transphobic. Similarly, if you call a crossdressing boy a crossdresser, that’s not transphobic. If you call a transgender girl a crossdresser, that’s transphobic. If you call a crossdressing man a man, that’s not transphobic, If you call a transgender woman a man, that’s transphobic. You wouldn’t make a video trying to state that “crossdresser” or “man” are innately transphobic words and that we should stop using them and replace them with something else, you would correct the person using those incorrectly that it’s incorrect, and if they persist, you dropkick them like garbage into a trashcan.
And, while this isn’t as strong as the other points... The “far right memetic anime fan” burn says more about you than it does about any dissenters. If you end your thesis with “and if you disagree, you’re bad”, all it does is display a lack of confidence in your persuasive and informative skills on your part. To anyone who was on the fence, you guilted them into agreeing with you for fear of being called a transphobe, to anyone who disagreed with you, you just stacked the deck because now they’ll already have people predisposed to thinking them a monster, and to people who already agreed with you, you just pandered to them.
I’d also recommend watching this video by TheSMonroeShow. Seeing it on my dash inspired me to re-do this rebuttal, and he focus more on the general history and connotations and junk where I mostly focus on ThePedanticRomantic’s statements and how language works.
youtube
#thepedanticromantic#the pedantic romantic#trap#jasou#otokonoko#rebuttal#discourse#oh no renardie is posting#infoxicated
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Ceart-leth
Previous Chapters
Chapter 12
Her heavy, swollen eyes scanned the horizon, watching, waiting, and seeing nothing but the empty road as the sky turned from blue to orange, orange to red, and red to the deep purple black of night. They’d been travelling for hours, and had covered miles of rough highland terrine before they’d stopped for the night. But her heart and mind were still at Leoch: still with Jamie.
Please God, keep him safe.
Until the men caught up with them, they had no way of knowing what had transpired after they’d fled the castle, and love him or hate him, she was terrified.
Haunted by the image of him lying bleeding and broken in the cobbled stone courtyard, she’d turned her horse around twice, desperate to go back, desperate to know he was still alive. But she’d been thwarted and threatened by Murtagh, as he turned her back around and insisted they go on.
His mood had been as black as Brian’s, so she hadn’t dared to ask where they were going on to, but she didn’t need to, she already knew.
They were heading to Lallybroch and to the life that Jamie had there.
A life that didn’t include her.
Maybe that was why she’d wanted to go back, maybe it had nothing to do with Jamie or the fight, and everything to do with what lay beyond Leoch.
She wanted to go home.
She wanted Joe.
At Lallybroch she’d have to face Jamie’s wife, a wife he apparently loved. To look her in the eyes knowing how it felt to be in her husbands arms, to kiss his lips, and feel his body upon hers. She’d have to watch them together, to see him with his children, and pretend she felt nothing.
But she did, she felt everything, and it was tearing her apart.
Tears clouded her vision and she blinked lazily, letting them fall as they would. She had no energy left to care. The last six days had been just too much. She’d felt the extreme edge of terror, the heights of euphoric bliss, and the deepest depths of despair. She’d been plummeted through time, attacked at knife point, touched with reverence, and dragged around like a bloody rag doll.
She’d been to hell and back, and she wasn’t sure how much more she could take. She was emotionally, mentally and physically exhausted.
But what choice did she have?
Finding her way back to Craig na Dun alone would be impossible, and even if she could convince Murtagh to take her, she had no idea what she would even find.
It was clear that, somehow, history had changed. Nothing she knew was as it should be. First with Black Jack, then Sandringham, and now Argyll. So if everything was different in the past she’d landed in, then did she really belong here? Was this really her place, her time, as she had told Joe in her diaries?
And if not, did Joe and the life she knew in 2018, still exist?
Just the thought alone horrified her beyond imagining. If she’d landed in the wrong time, and the love she was supposed to find no longer existed, then neither did Joe, and she had nothing whatsoever to hold onto.
I was never destined to be a Fraser.
The wayward thought hit her and she laughed at herself bitterly. She was nothing but a stupid, foolish girl, infatuated with a man she knew absolutely nothing about. Yet she’d trusted him, followed him from the top of Craig na Dun, and into a place she didn’t belong.
And all because of what? A school girl crush? Hero worship? An ambiguous letter from a man that will most likely never even be born?
It was all just so fucked up. Joe had never even said that Jamie would be the one. He’d just painted a picture of a dashing hero, and she’d been the one to assume. She was angry, scared, hurt and so fucking confused. Nothing made sense and she felt so helpless she was suffocating, and she knew it would only get worse once they arrived at Lallybroch.
“She’s called Brimstone.” She heard Murtagh announce quietly from her side and she scoffed, shaking her head at the sheer irony.
“How appropriate.”
She wasn’t in the mood to talk, she just wanted to be left alone, leaning gently against her silent companion as they stood and watched the deserted road. But she heard him sigh, and looked over, watching as he stroked a loving hand down the nose of the beautiful ivory horse.
“Claire…”
“I don’t want to hear it. I don’t need an explanation.” She insisted trying to hold back the tears that were so close to the surface. She couldn’t talk about this, not here, not now, and not with him.
“I ken that, an it’s no my place to say anything…”
“Then don’t.” She pleaded, pushing away from the horse and turning her back on Jamie’s Godfather. Why did he feel the need to talk now? Could he not just go back to being the stony, bad tempered bastard she’d ridden beside all day?
Swiping at her eyes, she looked out into the distance, and seriously considered asking him to take her to Craig na Dun. Whether she could get through the stones or not, it had to be a better fate than what she was facing now.
But what about Jenny?
She’d promised Jamie, as they spoke softly that night on the couch, that she’d help his sister, and as much as it pained her, she couldn’t break that promise. His fear of loosing her had been too real for her to ignore.
She sighed quietly and sank down in the grass. She’d go to Lallybroch, help Jenny, and after she’d given birth, she’d ask Jamie to take her back to the stones. If she couldn’t get through, maybe she could go on to Inveraray Castle and find work there with his father.
The Duke of Argyll.
Jesus Christ.
Not only had she done what she feared and made a complete tit of herself in front of the Duke. But to add insult to injury, he was Jamie’s father, and if she remembered correctly, that made Jamie the Marquess of Lorne.
Joe would have a field day with that one. He’d always told her that the men she dated weren’t good enough for her. If he found out that her first, non-self-induced orgasm, had been at the hands of Marquess, he’d die laughing.
That he was the son of the most powerful man in Scotland would be the icing on the cake. Though she didn’t suppose he’d enjoy knowing that the man was already married.
“If ye willna talk, will ye at least eat?” Murtagh huffed, practically shoving a skinned rabbit in her face. She reared back, taking it from him automatically, and almost heaved at the smell. There was nothing wrong with it, but just the thought of eating anything made her stomach roll violently.
“I’m not hungry.” She insisted, attempting to pass it back to him.
“Damn stubborn as a mule.” He grouched, sinking down beside her, and snatching the rabbit back. “Ye suit each other in that, ye ken.”
“Murtagh, please!” She cried, drawing her knees up and burying her face in her skirts. “Just don’t. I’m begging you. I’m exhausted, and I just…can’t.”
She wanted to stuff her fingers in her ears like a child, singing la la la until Murtagh got the message and left her the hell alone. But even in her overwrought state she wasn’t that rude, and she’d probably find herself at the pointy end of his dirk if she did.
“I ken something of heartache, lass, an’ I pray ye’ll no have to suffer as I have.” He whispered, despite her protests. The misery in his voice tugged at what was left of her heart, and she rolled her head to look at him.
“I’m sorry.” She whispered back as she watched him stare blindly down the road, suddenly feeling guilty. His pain was written clearly on his face and without thinking she reached over and gently laid a hand on his arm.
“Ach, t’was years before ye were even born.” He sighed, patting her hand softly as he turned to look at her. “But I fell just as fast an’ hard as I’v watch ye do, an’ I dinna wanna see ye close yerself off as I did. T’is a lonely road, lass. So dinna be so stubborn. He said ye could ask him, so ask.”
“He told you.” She murmured confirming what she’d already suspected. In any other situation she’d be mortified, but she was so far past giving a shit, that she just shrugged and slowly removed her hand from his arm.
“Aye. After a bottle of whiskey an’ a good bash ‘round his head. For all the good it did.” He huffed producing a whiskey skin and offering it to her with a wink.
She laughed sadly and took it from him.
“What secrets are you trying to get from me?”
“None, but I’v set ye a pallet up no far from the fire an it will help ye sleep. Things always look better in the morning, lass.” He told her quietly, and placed a gentle, fatherly hand on her shoulder, squeezing it slightly.
“Thank you.” She sniffled, then wiped her eyes on her sleeve, and took a healthy swing of the burning spirit.
Murtagh had laid the furs on a thick blanket of heather, and drunk on the vast quantity of whiskey she’d consumed, she stumbled and all but fell onto the soft pallet. She heard Murtagh’s quiet chuckle and sighed gratefully as he covered her with her plaid and left her to sleep.
But she couldn’t sleep. With her back to the fire, she once again fixed her eyes on the empty road, and waited.
And waited and waited.
Tears streamed silently down her face, unstoppable as she listened to the quiet, mournful voice of Graham as he sang quietly in Gaelic. Although she didn’t understand the words, the minor notes spoke to her of heartache and loss, and she gave herself to them, as she softly cried herself to sleep.
Her dreams were heavy and disjointed. Scenes of ancient battles, war cries and rivers of blood, blended seamlessly with a gentle summer breeze and a child’s laughter, as they were chased by Jamie through a field of barley. Her heart ached as she watched, frozen on the sidelines, an invisible spectator to his world.
At some point she felt the thundering beat of horses echo thought the ground, and heard the jubilant cries of men home from war. But she didn’t wake, not really. Like in her dreams, she was trapped on the outskirts, hovering on the edge of consciousness as life went on around her.
“Shh, mo gràdhag, dinna weep.” Jamie whispered softly, brushing a gentle hand down her cheek. Her heart stuttered and she almost reached for his hand when she heard quiet footsteps approach.
“Ye love her.”
There was a long drawn out silence after Brian spoke, and unsure whether she really was awake or still asleep, she tried to keep her breath deep and even as her heart pounded in her chest. She wanted nothing more than to fling herself into Jamie’s arms, to check for herself that he was alive and unharmed, but she couldn’t. He wasn’t hers to care for, or rejoice with, and despite the pain it would cause, she needed to know what he would say.
If he said anything at all.
She felt him move, and the fingers on her face gently traced her cheek and slid up into her hair. More tears fell and he sighed quietly.
“I shouldna.” He whispered painfully, “But Lord God help me, I do.”
Her heart stopped completely before thumping back to life at twice it’s natural rhythm. He loved her, and while joy should have followed his quiet deceleration, there was nothing but pain, and she shattered into a million tiny pieces. The agony in his voice mirrored her own, and she wanted to wail at fates cruelty.
“She’s so like ye mam.” Brian laughed softly his voice slightly closer than before. She felt the air move and heard the quiet rustle of grass, as he sat down beside his son. “She’s so strong and fierce. Woe to any man who’d stood in her way after ye fell. Rupert was lucky she didna have a dirk, as was I when she came at me in the clearin’.”
Jamie laughed quietly as he twisted and unwound a lock of her hair around his finger, over and over. It was as soothing as it was terrifying. She wanted him more than her next breath, but he wasn’t hers to covert.
“Murtagh said…”
“Aye, I heard.”
“Ye may have heard, son, but did ye listen?” Brian chastised him gently. “You’v no told her of Annalise. Ye ken she loves ye, yet ye hidin’ from her.”
“I’m no hidin’. I’v know her but six days. I’v never…I dinna ken how to tell her. I’v been racking my brains, tryin’ to find a way. I thought I had time before we left for Lallybroch. I didna expect Laoghaire to…”
“Did ye no?” Brian scoffed. “The wee bitch has been after ye for years, ye ken that laddie, an’ all evidence aside, I didna raise a fool James Fraser. Ye hurtin, and ye ken I understand that, but the choices ye makin’ will lead to nothin’ but pain…an’ it’s no just ye own heart ye breakin’. The poor lass is weepin’ in her sleep.”
“I canna do it to her.” Jamie cried desperately, “I canna love her, and keep her safe, when my lovin’ her will kill her. Ye ken that better than anyone.”
Brian’s sigh was laced with frustration and Claire felt it in the very marrow of her bones. It was clear that Brian didn’t trust Laoghaire, but if she read between the lines, the girl hadn’t lied to her, she’d simply told her what Jamie wasn’t ready to. As for the rest, it made no sense at all.
This was either the strangest dream she’d ever had, or she needed to stop feigning sleep and do as Murtagh said and ask him. The time for hiding was over, for both of them.
“Ye’v a right to be scairt, ye’d be a fool no to be. But it’s no just ye’r choice to make. Given my time again with ye mam, even knowin’ the consequences, I wouldna change a damn thing. I loved her, and I lost her, but she was mine, an’ I’ll cherish that to my dyin’ day.
“Now t’is almost dawn, and ye willna sleep. So wake the poor lass an’ talk to her. Maybe she’ll talk some sense into ye.”
She felt, rather than heard Brian stand and walk away, and a heavy silence fell over them. Her heart was lodged in her throat, choking her as it thudded there painfully. She was too afraid to move, to think, or to hope.
Murtagh had warned her, as he dragged her from her room, not to judge what she didn’t know. But still lost in the shock of Laoghaire’s revelations, she’d dismissed him and instantly thought the worst of Jamie. But things were obviously not as they seemed, and if she was ever going to understand him, she was going to have to swallow her pain and pride and ask.
She may never get another chance. Once they arrived at Lallybroch, he’d be with his wife, and whether he loved her or not, she knew that he was a good man and he wouldn’t disrespect his wife by being alone with her at their home.
She heard him sigh, and the hand that had been still playing in her hair, gently moved back to her face, and he drew a calloused finger softly down her cheek. Fresh tears fell and he brushed them away before sliding his hand to her shoulder and squeezing it gently.
“Claire.” He whispered awakening the swarm of butterflies in the pit of her stomach. “Wake up, lass.” He shook her gently and taking one last breath to steady herself, she let her eyes flutter open.
They were swollen and blurry with tears, but in the last dying embers of the fire, she could just make out his perfect face. It was etched in fear, and cloaked in such sadness that she couldn’t speak through the lump in her throat.
“Shh.” He breathed, catching a tear on the edge of her lashes, “Come, we need to talk, and we canna do it here.”
She nodded silently, and clasped her fingers around his, as he helped her slowly to her feet. Without a word he scooped down to collect her plaid, and lay it carefully over her shoulders before taking her hand back in his and guiding her away from the fire.
Brimstone stood waiting, already saddled, and Jamie quickly lifted Claire and placed her atop the horse, before swinging up behind her and guiding her back against his chest. He was warm and solid, and although she knew she shouldn’t, she settled against him, listening to his strong heart thumping wildly beneath her ear.
“Your arm.” She protested as he wrapped them around her, took the reigns and moved Brimstone slowly along the path.
“Doesna matter right now.” He murmured, tightening his hold on her. She wanted to chastise him, aware as she was of the damage he could do. But she felt him press his lips against her hair and realised that worse damage had already been done.
This, right here, in his arms was where she belonged. Despite the changing history, despite Joe’s letter, and Annalise, and his children, she knew this was her place. That it could never be, that she’d landed in a time where he was already taken, destroyed her completely, because she knew beyond a doubt that he was the other half of her soul.
She’d travelled over five hundred miles, and almost three hundred years to find him, and if this last embrace was all she would get she’d take it. Brian had said it perfectly. If she was given the chance all over again, knowing the consequences, she’d take it and cherish it until her dying day.
They rode in silence, moving off the path and through the forest. The night sky had lightened with the coming dawn, just enough for them to see their way, but she had a feeling that Jamie didn’t need it, he already knew where he was going.
As they passed through the last of the trees and into a clearing, Claire’s breath caught in her throat. They were at the top of a ridge, and as the sun slowly rose over the mountains she could see for miles. It was so beautiful, so peaceful, with no sound but their quiet breathing and the steady beat of their hearts.
“Callum dropped a knee to Argyll.” He told her quietly, as he swung off the horse and held his arms up to help her down. She lent forward, almost falling into his embrace, and sighed as he slowly slid her body against his. “Everything ye’r eye touches now belongs to him.”
He turned her to face the view and, giving her time to pull away, he slowly wound his arms around her waist and pulled her back against him.
“It wasn’t always that way. When I left for France at nineteen, we owned one small patch of land, just beyond the mountain way there.” He breathed, pointing to a pass she could just make out in the distance. “Lallybroch. It was gifted to him by my Grandsire when he wed, and he built the house with his own bare hands.”
“What changed?” She whispered back causing him to laugh hollowly and tighten his hold.
“Eveythin’.” He sighed releasing her and stepping away.
Chapter 13
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Historical Half-Truths & Embellishments: What the Film Got Wrong
When Mel Gibson’s Scottish war film Braveheart first came out, it was a critically-acclaimed success. Although, while everyone enjoyed the film as a fantastic piece of cinema, the historians in the audience didn’t take so kindly to it. Braveheart is very well known for being very historically inaccurate. For instance, Isabella Princess of Wales. The whole storyline in the film about her and Wallace’s secret romance, meant to add more drama and love to an otherwise gritty film, is completely inaccurate. Not only did the two never actually meet, but at the time of Wallace’s uprising and eventual death Isabella was only around 9 years old. This means that all the scenes she was in, including the scenes where she wasn’t included but her previous actions affected the plot, either never happened or occurred differently. This drastically changes the second half of the film and really showcases the level of inaccuracy in the film.
Another inaccuracy is the clothing. In the film, the Scottish are seen wearing kilts and the English are seen with armour and a type of uniform. In reality, neither of those were used when this film takes place, the 13th century. Kilts weren’t invented until well into the 17th century. This information is frustrating, given how prominently featured the kilts are, even making for a memorable joke at the Battle of Stirling Bridge (which too is inaccurate as the film doesn’t show any bridge whatsoever at the battle). As for the uniforms, back in those days it wasn’t expected for the knights to have matching outfits, in fact, they really just used whatever clothing was available.
A minor but still notable inaccuracy is the fact that during the time that the movie takes place (13th century), the Scots didn’t paint their faces for battle. This seems like a minor difference but considering how iconic the Braveheart war-paint is, it’s surprising to know it’s not how things were actually done. In reality, the Anglo-Normans, who made up a large part of England, Ireland and even Scotland, were very influential and their manners of dressing as well as their armour and war-tactics were the norm for this period, therefore, no war-paint.
It’s also surprising to learn that the entire opening with Wallace as a child, when his father dies in battle and his uncle must look after him, is completely fabricated. In actuality, Wallace’s father was most likely alive when William was fighting his rebellion. Wallace also had two brothers, Malcolm and John, who both died after William’s execution in 1305. As well, the character of Uncle Argyle, who raised and educated William, was complete fiction. This means that almost all of the backstory we see of William in the first part of the film is fictional and never happened.
Another absolutely crazy inaccuracy in the film is the law of Prima Nocte. Prima Nocte is the law that allows the lords or nobles the right to take the virginity of a woman on their wedding night. This law is what lead to the inciting incident of the film to happen (the death of Wallace’s secret wife Murron). As important as it clearly is as a major storytelling device, what’s interesting to find out is that it didn’t actually happen. Not only did Prima Nocte never play a part in the story of William Wallace or his wife (real name Marion), but it has long been believed by historians that the law of Prima Nocte never actually existed in the first place, despite it being so prominently featured in Braveheart as well as many other movies.
Overall, the film Braveheart is clearly more influenced by Hollywood than history. The film throws in extra characters, changes key details about important events, and generally ignores the history of the original event, all for the sake of a more entertaining film. While it might not be the film to watch for insight into the real life of Sir William Wallace, it’s still a very entertaining film that gives you the absolute basics of what took place.
CITATIONS:
MÄKINEN, HANNU. "BraveHeart – The 10 historical inaccuracies you need to know before watching the movie." Hande's Blog. N.p., 12 Oct. 2016. Web.
Padden, Kathy. "Jus Primae Noctis: Fact or Fiction?" Today I Found Out. N.p., 09 Sept. 2014. Web.
Hoss, Sarah. "Was war paint worn in battle in Scotland?" Heart of Romance. N.p., 19 Oct. 2011. Web.
Innes, Ewan J. "Braveheart, Fact or Fiction." ScottishHistory.com. N.p., 1998. Web.
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