#it's the 'how unhinged does this look from the outside' question maybe
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have realized that while i am not a fan necessarily of "people meet and immediately fall in love" i am a fan of "people meet and are immediately obsessed with each other." the love can come later but the absolute fixation should be immediate
#important text posts#about me#vegaspete and xuexiao in particular come to mind#it's the 'how unhinged does this look from the outside' question maybe#if it just looks like two people hitting it off and being cute together right away then eh not my thing#if it looks like two people who have suddenly zeroed in on each other in a way that makes others go 'oh that doesn't seem good'#i'm there baby
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Infernal Desires | Chapter 2 | Coriolanus Snow
Summary: as penance for your brother's sins, Coriolanus demands that you are sent to his household to work his debt. But Coriolanus does not expect to burn so strongly for you and finds himself addicted to having you as close as he can keep you.
Chapter 1
young!president snow x fem!reader
Word Count: 3.9k
Warnings: NSFW! Smut! enemies to lovers (??), biting, fingering, unhinged dirty talk I guess, degrading, swearing, talk of ownership, orgasm denial, almost hate fucking, stockholm syndrome maybe?
a/n: ok, i got a little carried away here and I'm sure you can tell because this one seems possibly more disjointed than the last. let me know what you think and if I've missed any warnings!
Days had passed and Coriolanus had been acting as if you didn’t exist. He had ignored your attempts at talking to him, pretended he didn’t hear the constant questions that you asked about what work you were supposed to be doing and why are you here if you aren’t doing any work like you were meant to?
Truth be told, Coriolanus had acted irrationally in making the deal. Jericho may have been someone he loved as a confidant and a friend but truly, he could have simply had him hanged without blinking an eye. Treason is treason and Coriolanus certainly would not stand for it - more so because of the sting of your brother’s betrayal. But here you were, waiting outside of the bedroom he had the staff keep ready for you with a fierceness in your eyes that managed to catch him by surprise.
Without saying a word, Coriolanus stood in front of you and waited for you to speak.
“I was supposed to be given work for our end of the bargain,” You avoided letting your anger seep into your tone. “Instead, you’ve been keeping me in your home and avoiding me like I’m some sort of disease.” Stepping towards him, you shook off the nerves that had your stomach in knots. “I tried to leave yesterday. Your guards–or whoever they are–stopped me from leaving. Said you told them I’m not to exit the grounds.”
Coriolanus was calm. “That’s right. That is exactly what I told them.”
“You said I could visit home.”
A shrug. “I lied.”
“You’d better start telling the truth-”
“Do not,” Coriolanus spat. Somehow, he resented you so much that he couldn’t hold back the worst of himself around you. “speak to me like that. I won’t tolerate disrespect. Not from the likes of you-”
Your hand met his cheek before you realised what was happening. It wasn’t hard and Coriolanus barely flinched more than the turn of his head but your hand burned hot at the mistake that had just been made. Pushing down the fear that bubbled in your gut, you squared your shoulders and spoke firmly. “You will let me serve my brother’s sentence so that I can get the hell out of your house as soon as I’m done. Or is there no honour to your word?”
Coriolanus was red with frustration and you were half aware that angering him would not turn out well. But you were not going to cower and fold to the power that he claimed to have over you. He may be ruler of Panem to its citizens but the two of you had grown up side by side and you knew the man he was past the charade of charm and carefully written speeches. Arrogant, greedy, entitled and selfish.
“You still think that’s really why you’re here?” He looked terrifyingly handsome in his rage. “You should appreciate the generosity I’ve shown you. You’re living in my home, free of charge and free to do as you please with your time so long as you stay within its walls. I hardly see how that is a problem for you.”
“Generosity?” You scoffed. “You’re keeping me prisoner.”
Coriolanus’ expression was blank, his light curls casting shadows of his face as he let out a snarl. The fabric of his meticulously tailored jacket brushed against your hand and before you knew it, he guided you into the bedroom with a strong hand on your back that had you stumbling into the middle of the room.
“Since you’re so ungrateful, I’ll show you what it means to be a prisoner in my home,” Coriolanus said, sticking his hand into the pocket of his dress pants and pulling out a set of two keys, dangling it in front of your nose. “You’re not to leave this room until I say so. Try to leave and I’ll have you whipped.”
And with that, he left you to yourself, slamming the door harshly behind him. The click of the lock was barely drowned out by your protests, palms smacking against the wood of the door.
How dare he?
Tears welled in your eyes but even in your own company, you refused to let them fall. The ache in your chest for the freedom to visit home, to walk the streets of the Capitol and to see your friends was overwhelming. You hadn’t been here long and you knew that the Coriolanus’ home was a luxury far beyond your imagination but the feeling of confinement ate at you.
This was not fair. You had done him no wrong. In fact, his hatred towards you was entirely unwarranted and everything seemed so, so unfair. His problem wasn’t with you - it was with Jericho. So why did Coriolanus have so much rage for you? Even as a teenager, he was cold and detached despite your best efforts to warm him.
If this was to be your prison cell then you were fortunate, you thought. At least he didn’t send you down to the bunkers or to whatever place was made for those who crossed the new President.
The room you had been given upon your first night was unlike anything you had expected. It was red and big and the carpet felt like clouds under your toes - a luxury so simple and so particular that you wondered what kind of wealth could afford such minute pleasures. The wealth of a country, it seemed.
You still think that’s really why you’re here?
If you were being honest with yourself, you knew Jericho and your father had been lying to you. It made no sense - in fact, it was a ridiculous excuse that they had given you. You weren’t stupid - there was no work that you could possibly do to fulfil the extent of Jericho’s debt nor to save your family’s already tarnished reputation.
So why were you here? You had your own doubts. Not only had you spent the last three days with little more to do than think but hours had passed alone in this cage since your confrontation with Coriolanus.
Jericho had said you were only part of whatever bargain he had struck. You figured that Coriolanus had use for Jericho and here you were, a token of control over your family. So long as Coriolanus had you here, Jericho would have to do whatever it was Coriolanus needed him to do.
The sound of the door lock clicking pulled you out of your thoughts. Candice didn’t bother knocking before stepping into your room with her arms full of–dresses?
“Mr. Snow wants me to get you ready,” she said. “You’ll be attending the gala we’re hosting tonight.”
What?
You eyed the dress that Candice laid down on your bed before rushing towards your wardrobe to put away the other dresses she held. From what you could see of the dress, it was unlike any dress you’d ever had the chance to wear. “I’m supposed to wear this?”
The look she gave was answer enough. “Take a bath first. I’ll help you into the dress once you’re out.”
You quickly washed up, half tempted to take your time but Candice was waiting for you and you didn’t intend for her to fall victim to your antics. There was a matching set of underwear laid out with the dress - if you could call it underwear.
Clutching the towel to your chest, you decided against the g-string that accompanied the stick-on bra. Before Candice could turn around, you shrugged on a robe and turned to do your own makeup.
Candice pottered about, seemingly displeased with your insistence on doing your minimal hair and makeup yourself. She helped you step into your dress, adjusting the fabric wherever it needed. “Perfect, ma’am.”
“Please, you don’t need to call me ma’am,” you corrected.
You stared at your reflection in the mirror.
Fuck.
The dress was a perfect fit. It was a deep emerald green satin, floor length gown with a wired corset midsection. The bust was stiff and covered your cleavage just enough so that it could accentuate the swell of your breasts perfectly. Inch thick straps hung just off of your shoulders, leaving your neck and collarbones bare. The back of the dress dipped just above your hips. It made you look and feel sultry in an entirely new way.
This was a powerful dress and you wondered if Coriolanus had intended it to be. Candice fastened a thin, crystal chain around your neck. You asked her the question that had been lingering at the back of your mind, “Why does he want me at the gala?”
“I’m merely the housekeeper,” Candice spoke, her voice stern. She reminded you of a teacher. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Oh,” you murmured.
“I’ll leave you for now. Mr. Snow will escort you downstairs when he’s ready.”
And just like that, you were locked in your room once more.
Coriolanus was making you wait. He knew that your mind would be racing with questions - questions he knew you would assault him with as soon as you had the chance. If he wanted to, he was more than ready to pick you up from your room and show you to the main hall. But there was something so satisfying in knowing the effect he had on you.
He could picture the scowl on your face and the way you’d be wallowing in your impatience.
Forty-minutes had felt like two hours before Coriolanus was standing in your doorway, dressed impeccably in a three piece suit that was tailored to every curve in his body. He was like the embodiment of Adonis, the way he radiated with beauty and temptation.
Coriolanus’ gaze made your breath catch in your throat. It was hot and you swore you could feel it scorching your skin as he studied you from head to toe. “Let’s go.”
“Am I-Am I your date?” You still didn’t understand.
“Of course not,” he answered. “You said you wanted to see your family. Your parents will be here tonight.”
A statement. That’s what you were.
I have your daughter. She’s safe and sound so long as you behave.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered if it meant that you’d get to see your parents. A sense of urgency overwhelmed you and you rushed towards Coriolanus. “Let’s go then.”
Goosebumps arose on your skin the second that Coriolanus’ hand brushed against the dip of your back. It was a gentle graze, feather light and barely there but he drew his hand back and took a breath before you could even blink.
“Follow me.”
Coriolanus had left your side before entering. The main hall was packed with people, many of whom you recognised from your days studying or as past friends of the family. They all looked at you scornfully and you knew that they were all thinking of you as a traitor to the Capitol. You weren’t but you had the same blood as one.
The music was pleasant and some people danced while others were busy drinking and conversing. You searched the crowd for your parents, hoping that you didn’t look as crazed as you felt. There were so many eyes on you, so much judgment that it made you suck in a breath and keep your eyes anywhere but on the guests.
Your mother was toward the entrance, a champagne flute held delicately between her fingers as she talked with your father.
It was a miracle they had been invited after everything but you knew that they were only here because Coriolanus had a message for them. A message that was loud and clear just through your attendance. A message that told them that you were sitting comfortably in the palm of his hand, that he could use your entire family for whatever he pleased.
“Ma,” you reached for her, willing yourself not to cry in a room filled with people. She gasped, arms wrapping around your shoulders as she mumbled incoherently. “Are you okay? And Jericho?”
“We’re all fine,” she smiled sweetly. “How is it? Over here? Are they treating you badly-”
“Ears everywhere, my dear. I see that Snow has been generous.”
Generous. That word was like a parasite, stuck to you and making you sick to your stomach.
“Yes. I’ve been–I’ve been okay.”
You stayed with them for the entirety of the night, slowly making your way through one glass of champagne and a couple plates of the food that was set out for the guests.
Slipping your glass onto a tray that one of the Avox were carrying, you smiled at Livia Cardew who barely spared a glance at you from where she stood. She was talking to Coriolanus and another man whom you could not name, a hand on his arm as she gazed at him through her eyelashes.
You glanced towards the corridor. Coriolanus seemed distracted enough by the conversation. Maybe you could blend in with the guests, make your way out as part of a group and nobody would be any the wiser.
A few steps at a time, you made your way towards the exit. Every now and then someone would try and make idle conversation, seeing you alone and extending a greeting. But it would only last a few minutes.
By the time you were at the exit, Coriolanus was nowhere to be seen. Fine, as long as he was far away from you. The front door was grand and there were groups of people saying their goodbyes. It was the perfect getaway opportunity.
You could disguise yourself within the guests, make your way a block down where your parents would drive past and leave with them. It would work and you’d be out. You could see Jericho, your friends and then you could disappear somehow. Jericho would help you if you explained things to him–if you asked him.
The thought that you were making a mistake began to cross your mind but just as you were at the foot of the door, an arm wrapped itself around your waist roughly, fingers digging into your hip as you were pulled away. Coriolanus smiled at the people who turned to look at you, their eyes trailing to where his hand burned its mark into your side.
You could hear your blood rushing and heart racing, your palms growing clammy. You considered struggling, maybe putting up a fight. But it would be useless. Coriolanus was strong and how far would you even get before someone else caught up to you? Your plan was a desperate, confused mess.
Of all the things happening in that moment, your mind was clouded by Corolanius’ cologne and the roughness with which he held you. The tick in his jaw and the slight purse of his lips gave away the anger he was suppressing as he dragged you through the crowd, opening the closest door he could find and pulling you in with him.
Shit.
Coriolanus pulled you so that you were facing him, holding your arms firmly in his hands. He all but growled, “Didn’t I tell you not to run away, little mouse?”
Your cheeks burned and your chest felt as if it were about to explode. Corolanius had brought you into a closet which was the size of a small bedroom but you were flush against him, chest to chest and eye to eye.
“What? Are you going to have me whipped for it?” Taunting him was not a good idea but it came so naturally that you barely realised what you were doing.
Coriolanus pushed you into a shelf, pressed against the surface and your back flush against his chest. “I don’t like disobedience. My things are to stay where I leave them.”
You struggled against him. But it was for nothing. You barely stood a chance against the man who held you, his breath tickling your ear as you spoke. “I’m not something you own, Coriolanus. I don’t have to listen to you.”
“Oh but you do,” his knee lodged between your thighs, holding you down. “Where were you going to go, hmm? There’s not a single place in Panem where I couldn’t hunt you down myself and you’d be back here within a week.” Coriolanus could feel your rapid breathing, feel the way you squirmed against him but moulded so perfectly into his body. “Maybe I should have let you go. I do enjoy a chase.”
There was a seductive venom that coated his tongue. It was so unlike the Coriolanus Snow you had known all those years ago who may have been riddled with arrogance and dishonesty but he was never wicked.
“What did I ever do to you, Coriolanus?” You gasped as he pressed himself further into you in an attempt to put an end to your struggling. Tears threatened to well in your eyes. “Why are you doing this to me?”
Coriolanus stilled. He thought of the words to say, the words to describe the way that four years ago, he would have despised himself for making you cry. As far as you were concerned, all he was to you was Jericho’s friend. Jericho’s friend who never had the perfect home that you had, never had the wealth that he deserved, never had what he desired the most.
He never had you.
And Coriolanus hated you for it.
“You were so blind,” he said. “So unaware. So selfish. All I had ever wanted from you was your devotion and all you gave me was resentment.”
Whether it was the gravity of his confession, or the way his body felt against yours, it took your breath away. What he was saying didn’t make sense. “I didn’t know. You were so cruel to me, Coriolanus.”
Your chest was heavy with so many conflicting emotions. Fear, shock, anger and desire.
“You want to know why I’m doing this to you?” Coriolanus brought his lips so close to your ear that they brushed against your skin and sent a shudder through your body. “Because I hate your brother for what he did. Because I hate your family. Because I hate you.”
His hands, his hands.
They were everywhere, dragging all over your body and leaving a trail of fire on your skin. He slid his fingertips down the sides of your dress, bunching it up at your hips. You couldn’t breath, couldn’t think of the words to say as the ache between your legs grew for him. It wasn’t right - Coriolanus was all but kind to you but your body yearned for him.
He bit your ear. “I hate you but I fucking burn for you.”
Another gasp and you arched into him. Coriolanus’ words burrowed deep into your core and made your head spin with unfettered lust. After everything, you would have given him everything right then and there. The desire you had for each other was infernal, it was wrong and it was perfect.
The air was thick and Coriolanus thought he’d choke on the passion that was heavy in his chest. Your skin was soft like the satin of the dress he had picked out for you and it drove him crazy to think about all the ways he could indulge himself in your flawless body.
“So tempting all the damn time,” he touched you with so much determination you wanted to let yourself melt into him, to become one with his heart and body. “Would you let me fuck you like this, missy? How I should have done years ago and make your body mine?”
You let out a wanton moan as his lips found your neck, sucking roughly along the ridges of your skin. “I don’t know-”
“Of course you don’t.” Coriolanus let his hand slip to the inside of your thigh, roughly digging his nails into your flesh and dragging them up to the most intimate part of your body that was bare under his touch. He sucked in a sharp breath at your lack of underwear and placed his hand flat against your sensitive flesh. “I’m sure you would. Look at how responsive you are to my touch, such a needy little thing.”
The feeling of his hand against your sex and his body pressed against yours sent shockwaves through your body, right down to the tips of your toes. With heavy breaths you reached for his arm, desperately scratching his skin because you needed more, more, more.
You were blind with need for Coriolanus’ body, for him to make good on his words and show you all the filthy things you knew he’d have perfected. The little voice at the back of your head told you to slow down, to think and that you’d regret this tomorrow morning but you were far too weak to listen to it.
“Just this once,” you were breathless as you spoke, chest heaving against the hard surface of the shelf.
Coriolanus tensed against you in surprise, his hips pressing against the swell of your bum. He was hard, so hard for you. “If I’m going to have you missy, it’ll be in my bed. Where I can take you in every way I’ve spent hours dreaming about.”
Against your better judgment, you drawled, “Thought you hate me-”
“I do hate you,” Coriolanus growled, swiping the pad of his forefinger over your clit in one swift movement that had you writhing in an instant. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to fuck you.”
You were so wet for him, so prepared for him to push his cock into you right then and it made him throb under the restriction of his dress pants. But Coriolanus was a man of great self control and he refused to give in so soon.
He sunk his teeth into your shoulder, the pads of his fingers rubbing circles over your clit, sending wave after wave of pleasure through your body. Your hips rutted against his hands, incoherent words tumbling from your lips.
Coriolanus was usually a selfish lover. He didn’t take pleasure in someone else’s pleasure. But the way you trembled against him, the way that every inch of you called for his touch and the way you sounded so desperate and so filthy for him satisfied him in an entirely new way. It made his cock twitch and set a fire in his blood.
“Please, Corio–I’m so close,” you whined. He chuckled darkly before pulling his hand away from you.
There were people looking for him, Coriolanus could hear them through the door. He couldn’t care less. “That’s enough for now. Seems like they’re looking for me.”
You turned yourself around, still squashed between Coriolanus and the shelf, just to gape at him. A smug smile graced his face, his pupils blown out with lust that you could feel pressed against your thigh. You resisted the urge to smack him again.
“You can’t be serious.”
Coriolanus stepped away from you, taking a moment to look at the mess he had made of you while slipping his fingers between his lips. Your dress was caught at your hip and hitched up at your thigh, your hair was tangled and your knees wobbled gently. But your eyes, wide and full of innocent, unburdened desire for him had him questioning his decision to stop.
How he longed to corrupt you.
“Collect yourself. I’ll send Candice to get you to your room,” he was at the door by now, fixing his tie as his fervent gaze was focused on you. “If you ever try to leave again, I will not be so lenient.”
With that, he was gone and you were once again left alone with a mind full of wild, distressed thoughts.
tags: @deadly-femme-bimbo @justaproudslytherpuff @10ava01 @edb954 @real-lana-del-rey @demyackerman @whatupitshuff @foreludes @motley-baby @unclecrunkle @cillianmurphysbxtch
#coriolanus snow#coriolanus snow x reader#coriolanus snow smut#coriolanus x reader#coriolanus snow x you#tom blyth#tbosas#coriolanus x you#the ballad of songbirds and snakes#📝#🥀
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𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞 (𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤)
summary: steve picks you up when you crash your car after your break-up. and you both realize things you wish you realized sooner.
warnings: 7k. smut 18+ mdni, blood, car crash, angst, fluff, allusions to smut, accusations of emotional cheating, idiots in love (based on the song 'flower in the dark' by fiji blue). slight sub!steve, facesitting, less dirty talk, small smut beCAUSE, creampie? cum eating, kinda sucky
a/n: takes place several months after s4, meaning this takes somewhere early 1987, which explains the INXS song. hope you all enjoy!
MASTERLIST
It happened so suddenly.
One minute you’re listening to a-ha, the next you’re swerving your car tremendously to the side to avoid a crossing cat. Your car hits a tree, hard and unforeseen, hurling you almost onto the dashboard and through the windscreen had it not been for the airbag. Your forehead meets the hard leather of your steering wheel, hefty enough that it makes you bleed just beneath your hairline.
There’s loud ringing in your ears, your eyesight fooling you into thinking you might be underwater. The hood of the car is bent, bunched in uneven folds and dark smoke seeping through the unhinged bumper, full of dents and thrown onto the ground. And fuck, your head hurts and your nose is bleeding. You know damn well the car might explode in a couple minutes, but you’re too weak to move.
Along with the faint memory of the cars screeching against the uneven asphalt road, there’s panicked chattering behind your car. With a hand on your forehead, you weakly reach over to open the door, but a stranger beats you to it—the woman keeping her arms stretched out to keep you from falling before you feel her hands around your waist, dragging you up from your slowly burning car.
It’s a cluster of are you okay? What happened? Someone called the ambulance! (you almost snapped at the second question. “I hit my car, dipshit. The fuck does it look like?”).
In that blurry haze, you remember being sat down in someone's car, someone saying that a truck’s coming to pick your car up, and if you wanted to be driven to the nearest phone booth.
You end up being dropped off at a phone booth right outside Hawkin’s Post. The woman had been kind enough to give you a cold beer for your forehead, and some rag she found in her glovebox to wipe the blood off your face. You hear how quick she left when the ringing left your ears, the way her wheels screeched the same way yours did before you hit the tree; you’re stumbling your way inside the confined box and picking up the phone, only to stare at the numbers blankly.
You’ve got no one to call.
No one knows where you live other than Robin, who doesn’t have a license and you couldn’t take the risk; Dustin, who’s not of age yet and god knows how he’d drive; Max…absolutely not. Nancy? With Jonathan on a date. Mike? You’d actually prefer having your face smashed into a windscreen than him driving you home. Lucas? Can ride a bike but almost crashed your car one time.
Five of them don’t even have cars.
Which leaves you to one last person.
Your heart pounds at the thought of him. Minds visibly debating if you should be petty and walk yourself home, or if you should suck it up and call him and just let yourself dwell in his passenger seat in this pity blood puddle as he tries to talk to you.
There’s sweat coating the thin epidermis of your hand, the material of the phone buttons burning beneath your fingertip as you dial his numbers. Your head aches, still even after the cold bear that’s now warming on your other hand, and you feel like your nose has been dislocated. And with the bottom half of your face crossing the border of numbness, you could faintly feel something drip down your nose.
Eleven digits pressed ten seconds later, the phone rings. You rest your head on the switchhook with the receiver hot against your ear as you hear the loud ringing. You wait, maybe ten seconds. Until it turns twenty to almost thirty before you hear the sound of a phone being picked up.
“Harrington residenc… ah, screw it. Hello?”
You don't speak, nervously twirling the handset line in your index finger as you stare blankly at the number pads, wondering what he might look like right now. There’s a statical silence filling your ear, and you try your best to let out a hushed deep breath.
“Hello?” he repeats.
Finally, you blink. “Steve?”
It’s his turn to stay quiet, like he’s processing whose voice he heard. You hear his soft huffs through his nose, and you squeeze your eyes shut to get rid of the headache.
“(y/n)?”
You smile a little. “Yeah. It’s me.”
You hear shuffling before he speaks again. “Hey. Um- what’s up?”
“I…” you suck your cheeks in, gnawing on your bottom lip. “I crashed my car.”
“What?!”
“I’m fine!” you reassure him. “Just…can you pick me up? I’m- I’m outside Hawkins Post and I can't really walk to where I was supposed to go. It’s too far…”
There’s a second of silence. An entire second that he’s given himself to decide. And you don't expect him to immediately say, “Yeah, sure. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
He came in five minutes.
You wonder if he’s passed the speed limit, ran through red lights and ignored speed bumps just so he could get to you. And the thought of it makes your heart ache — in the worst way. ‘Cause now you’re thinking if he’s that eager to see you, or that eager to help you, or just to get this over with. And just the thought of him being excited to see you?
It sets a confusing flame in your chest.
Steve exits his car. Striped shirt and tight dark blue jeans in all his disheveled eminence. You push yourself away from the phone booth, the lack of shade straining your eyes, but Steve jogs up to you and blocks the sun with his height.
“Hey,” his eye squints, hair not large enough to block the sunlight. “Jesus, (y/n), you’re bleeding.”
His hand comes up to touch gently on your forehead, where you wince at the contact of his fingertips on something raw. Steve tuts, muttering an apology before he’s fully cupping your face, but his apology doesn’t matter.
Not when he’s touching your face like it’s a normal thing for him to do. Like he used to back in those forgotten summer mornings and winter nights, with the way he cradles your face like a vase full of wilting flowers. But Steve doesn’t look into your eyes. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, he’s looking at the laceration on your forehead. And it feels familiar.
(Maybe when Billy Hargrove had almost beaten him to a pulp. And you remember Steve laying unconsciously between your legs at the back of Billy’s car, his face in your hands, slipping between the gates of consciousness.)
“What happened?” he asks, his hair falling over to cover the worry lines on his forehead.
“Saw a cat,” you murmur, cheeks flushing from his touch and you hope he doesn't feel it. “I swerved and I crashed into a tree. My car’s done for and- and my head hurts.”
“Course it does, ‘y crashed your car,” he mutters. And when Steve finally looks into your eyes, the worry shifts into a quick wave of realization that he’s still holding your face so casually. You see him swallow thickly, dropping his hands to his sides where he palms the pockets of his jeans. “I’ve got um, tissue. And water in the back of my car. We should get-get in. It’s getting hot.”
You follow him, watch as he opens the door for you and guides you in. Steve pushes his hair back as he crosses, walking over to his side until he’s sat beside you and slams the door closed. He doesn’t look at you yet, like he’s still preparing himself to look at you as he reaches behind to pull out two water bottles. Steve hastily gives them to you before he’s opening the glove box, pulling out a box of tissues and a bottle of alcohol, as well as a small box of bandaids.
Pointing at the tissue box, you furrow your eyebrows. “You still have that?”
The box of tissues he bought specially for Eleven. He’d complained to you before, how she always used her sleeve instead of buying a handkerchief to carry around so she’d wipe her blood off. And when you’d told him to do something about it himself, he bought everyone tissue packs — “Just in case one of you is with this kid and she starts bleeding again.”
You still have yours dug deep in a bag hidden in your cabinet. Dusted and unused.
“Yeah,” he huffs. “Kid’s back in Hawkins. God knows what might happen again. Even though the gates are closed now,”
“Dunno. Maybe the Russians are opening a gate again. We weren't so sure last time, right?”
“Only because some burnt middle aged man with powers decides to terrorize teens and open four huge gates,” Steve reaches over to swerve the AC to your direction, taking a bottle from your lap to open it. He shoves it in your hands, elbow on the steering wheel and he finally looks at you. “Drink up. You might get a heatstroke. Or you might pass out.”
You grimace at him.
Steve eyes you like something he’s lost his entire life. That wonder of unexpected reconciliation that makes his heart beat unwinding, because you’re talking to him. You called him for help; and even though Steve knows he’s not exactly your first choice for help, there’s a candle of hope offered to him. He watches you drink from the plastic bottle, trembling hand grasping it tight against you as you drink with heavy eyelids.
He takes it from you when you’ve finished the entire thing, tossing it behind him before he looks back at you with wary eyes. “More?”
You shake your head. “No,” you smile a bit.
Then he points to your forehead, side of his finger grazing the bridge of your nose. Steve’s other hand rubs his chin. “What about those? Need some help?”
“Do you even know how to?” you quip. Steve scoffs, reaching for the box of tissues in your hand and unscrews the alcohol.
“I think I’ve learned. From getting my ass handed to myself three times.” he pours alcohol on the folded tissue, eyebrows raising everytime he speaks. “I think we just got lucky last time. Minus the choking part.”
Steve’s hand raises on the side of your face, hesitant in taking your cheek into his palm once more. When he nods for permission, you allow him; ignoring the way his touch ignites something heavy in the pit of your stomach that causes the butterflies to leave their cocoons and storm your belly.
His touch is benign, delicate, conscious in the way that he knows he’s holding your face unlike earlier. He mutters instant apologies when you wince from the alcohol against your opening wound, the feeling of his thumb stroking the supple skin of your cheek was somehow an amelioration that he hopes would work.
The blood blends with the alcohol infused tissue, staining the soft paper. He wipes a bit harder on the dried morsel of blood surrounding your wound, until a small cut appears once all the blood’s gotten rid of. Steve takes the box of bandaids from his lap, you watching as he clumsily opens it and pulls a yellow bandaid with purple stars around the oval-like bandage.
Your eyebrows raise, bemused. “Cute,”
“Dustin wanted them,” he’s quick to defend. Steve removes the plastic from the bandage, spreading apart until he raises it to your wound and carefully places the pad on top of the cut, thumbs pressing it down until it sticks to your skin. “Or I think Erica did. Dunno. Kids love to take advantage of me.”
“Rich teenager who spends his time with a bunch of kids? Who wouldn't?” you snort. “I’m surprised they haven't asked you to buy them Nintendo.”
“Why? Do you want one?” his brow raises, fingers moving down to press on your nose, a slight throb as he does so.
“Pretty please?” you jut your bottom lip out. “With Ghosts N’ Goblins?”
Steve shakes his head, massaging the bridge of your nose. “Take advantage of me, why don't you?”
You laugh. “You know what this reminds me of?” you murmur. Steve looks at you, hands in a momentarily halt on your nose. “Billy. When we had to carry you to the back of his car and we had nothing but alcohol and bandaids. You know, Mike was actually thinking of stitching the cut,” you reach up to graze the ever faint scar on his jaw, and his face softens when you do so, “right here. But all we had was a fish hook and we couldn’t risk it.”
His chuckle’s short, faint and wilting off into the silence in his car as he looks at you, your hand muzzy on his jaw as your tracing stops, your eyes flitting to his. And Steve’s so close, with his breath fanning your face and the tip of his nose grazing yours; his eyes searching like a sailor on sea, an undulate curve of his thick hair covering his forehead when he dips his head down the slightest. You drop your hand back to your lap and turn your head away, making all his hope break and Steve sinks back to his seat, swallowing thickly. He screws the cap of the alcohol back on.
“So, where were you going?” he turns the key in the ignition, pushing his hair back before they settle on the steering wheel. You hm, an unsure ‘um’ that battles between telling him the truth or not.
“Home,” you lie. “Just, uh, take me home.”
The aether sky disappears behind the cluster of thick, dark clouds; like how paint water would topple over an artwork as it slowly washes over the dull sky of Hawkins, all that optimistic cyan glory replaced by a caliginous silver as its tears slowly fall down to the cracked ground. Your fist on your cheek, the radio quiet, and Steve’s contemplating whether you had told him the truth or not. He heard the slight hesitation in your voice, the avoidance of eye contact and the uncomfortable shift in your seat.
And so as he turns the corner, opposite to where your home was that you surprisingly didn’t notice with your dazed staring, Steve rubs his nose. “Hey, uh. Where’d you crash your car?” your head turns to him, cheek leaving your fist to straighten your back. “Just wanna see if the truck’s gotten it already,”
“I’m sure it’s still there,” You pull nervously at your seatbelt, staring ahead at the windscreen. “But just, um, past Warzone.”
“The one Eddie told us all the illegal shit were?”
“Yeah.”
“That- That’s where you were heading?”
You grimace. “I said past Warzone. Not before or at the Warzone.” your top lip curls in exiguous agitation. “And this is not the way to my fucking house, Steve.”
“Yeah, because we’re not going to your house,” his hand raises to point in front of him, driving past empty houses and rundown buildings that lead outside the town, the rain that forms little puddles beside sidewalks as the windscreen wiper starts moving.
“This is kidnapping!” you gawp silently, incredulous. “Take me home, Steve.”
“No, I wanna know where you’re going that you crashed your car past Warzone,” though loud, Steve’s voice is calm and patient, waiting for your reason. His sudden curiosity is unneeded, you think. Because why should he care where you’ve been? “Tell me so I can…drive you there.”
You sigh, back slumping on his leather seat as you look back at the window. “Illinois.”
The car slows with the way Steve’s foot weakens, eyes taking a double look on you. “Illinois? What- what are you gonna do in Illinois? See Murray?”
“No,” you say. “I was-...I was going to see my new apartment.” you look at him, seeing the way his hands tighten around the wheel. “It’s a couple miles farther from Murray’s, I think.”
It’s like his ribcage shrinks and squeezes his lungs, an ache that spreads throughout his chest as Steve’s mouth parts, head turning between the rode and you. He fixes his composure, the cat killed by his bothering curiosity as he says, “Apartment? You’re gonna move to Illinois?”
You shake your head. “Not forever. Just…indefinitely. Like, like a vacation. Or something.”
“Why?”
“Why?” you repeat. “We’ve nearly gotten killed, like, four times. Do you not think about, I don’t know, taking a vacation to rest? Leaving Hawkins after you got your ass handed to you for god knows how many times?”
Steve lets his shoulders rise into a shrug. “I don’t know. I mean, I can’t just leave them, you know. The kids,” his hand motions behind him. “Especially now that Max’s in the hospital and Eddie’s healing. It’s not like Robin’s the most reliable babysitter- don’t tell her I said that,” he turns to look at you. “And, with Jonathan back, the kids are gonna need you, too.”
“They don’t need me,” you squirm a little in your seat. “They have you. And Robin, who can do well with babysitting. And they’re not kids anymore, Steve. They don’t need babysitters. There are no more monsters slipping out of gates, or people randomly dying. I can- take a vacation if I want to.”
“Yeah, indefinitely,” he scoffs. “You’re just gonna leave everything behind?”
“I’m not!” you almost yell. “And besides, I’m always gonna call. Everybody's got phone’s now. So what if I don’t come back? They’re gonna be fine without me, Steve,” you think it’s the truth, with the way you said those words. Because they had each other: Max had Lucas. Eddie had Dustin, Will had Mike, and Steve had Robin. You? You’re just this random crayon drawn onto a piece of paper that disparities its colors. You didn’t have your own contrast, your own someone. Not after what happened with Steve.
“Why,” you continue, licking your lips. “Why do you care, anyway?”
You look at him, see the way everything behind him moves in a fast blur; trees fragmented by the raindrops coating his window. His nose wrinkles into a quick sniff, his eyes trained across the wet road. “You’re leaving—”
“—indefinitely—”
“—yeah and still, I don’t know if I’ll see you again,” his voice softens into a whisper, his cheeks turning pink at his confession, maybe also because you’re staring at him. “I mean, you’re moving to Illinois for god knows how long. What if you decide that you’ll stay there forever? How will the kids reach you when they need your help? What about Robin, or- or Nancy?”
Nancy’s name makes you wince.
His reason veils what he truly wants to say, even though what he said was a genuine concern of his. Steve gives you occasional glances, sees the way your eyes get clouded as you lose yourself in a thought, hears the way the song switches to the new released song Never Tear Us Apart.
You can’t read his mind, but you’ve got his tones and body language memorized like the entire map of hawkins. But maybe you’re wrong, because his tone is new and confounding — misleading in his words. You know he’s using the kids to mask up what he wants to say. And you, with your overthinking mind that has been giving you suffocating trepidations and agonizing maybes and what-ifs, your mind bears on a fact you refuse to believe but makes you scoff out loud in disbelief, anyway.
And despite its dubiety, you say it out loud anyway. “Yeah, Harrington. Go act like you care, why don’t you?”
In that snarky tone that puts a rock on your heart, Steve glowers slightly. “I always care about you, (y/n).”
“Well, you sure did a lot to let me know,” you roll your eyes, sinking into your corner. “Sure. Go flirt with Nancy Wheeler in front of me. Maybe in front of Jonathan, too! That totally shows how much you care, Steve.”
“Jesus Christ,” he runs a hand down his face, the pattering of the rain getting louder the farther you go out of Hawkins. “What’s this got to do with Nancy?”
“Really? You’re gonna act like you didn’t just almost tell Nancy you were still in love with her two weeks after we broke up?” Steve furrows his eyebrows at you. “Do you know how anxious and hurt I was to see you act like that around her? Thinking about how what if Steve was in love with Nancy the entire time he was my boyfriend? What if he just used me to get over her so that’s why he didn’t care that I dumped him? Didn’t even fight or ask why, like- like we were nothing. And now you’re telling me that you care? Did it even occur to you that maybe you’re the reason why I’m moving to Illinois because seeing you just hurts?”
There’s nothing but the turbulent radio and the loud rain hitting the roof of his car that fills the thick silence. Your chest heaves, now unburdened with the weight of your premonition. And his mind registers your words slowly — Because no, it hadn’t occurred to him that he’s the reason you’re moving; it hadn’t occurred to him that you had a sense of doubt tribulating you even as you prepared to kill Vecna back then. ‘Cause he’d been too worried to think about how to make it up to you, all while he tries to rekindle his friendship with Nancy. To the point you’d mistaken it as flirting with his yearning stares and lingering gazes.
“You really…felt that?” his voice is small, like he’d been yelled at by his own mother for his stupidity. You blink rapidly, forcing yourself to not look at him, afraid of breaking down when you do.
“Yeah,” you rub your nose with the side of your finger. “I mean, I guess it’s a sensible reason, right? Seeing as I didn’t exactly have the truth to confirm my thoughts; we got together a week after you and Nancy broke up. I don’t think a week’s enough to move on, yet we went on a date. And, I don’t know, I guess maybe I thought you’d only gotten with me because I was there, and we were both healing, and we both kinda needed some anchor. Except I really did like you and, it’s- It’s not like you told me you loved me, anyway.” you laugh sadly. “So what’s the point? Why would I stay here if I didn't have my own anchor anymore? I could just…float.”
It’s not like you told me you loved me, anyway.
There’s a rip on his heart when you wipe a tear away, pushing your hair behind your ears. Steve feels a lump on his throat, getting heavier and threatening as you continue.
“I cried a lot. When I broke up with you. Maybe because I saw the way you didn’t care. You didn’t even ask why. You just…said ‘okay.’ With your hands in your pockets, watching me leave your house. And- and then Vecna happened and I didn’t have time to grieve until- until you told Nancy about this dream of yours that I thought was really fucking stupid. And I said, well Steve Harrington totally is a douchebag because what are you doing telling your ex-girlfriend about your future like you want her to be there?”
A hand leaves the steering wheel as he scratches his head. Steve is an idiot. A man who’s shit at communication, a man who acted like he didn’t care when he broke your heart, a man who shamelessly gave Nancy stares that he used to give you when they were together. A man who’s nothing short of obliviousness to what you feel, who thinks that you were okay this entire time when really, you’d just been digging yourself a hole to hide yourself into. A hole that’s three hours away.
And despite his naivety, he’s appalled that he ever made you feel like he only liked you because you were there. Someone who’d been near and available to him. Steve wonders what else could you have felt that hurt you, that made you move to Illinois after what he did.
Steve slows down much to your dismay, just a few minutes after he passed the Hawkins sign. He parks beside the empty road, the ones passing by filled with boxes and eager families that don't seem to care about the both of you as he pulls on his gear and faces you with a hand to the back of your headrest.
And he sees you: the way you’re silently hurting while relishing in the relief of a confession. When you take a quiet inhale when you realize he’s leaned closer, your eyes widening the slightest because this was the third time he’d unabashedly leaned closer to you.
“Well, I am an idiot,” he finally spoke. “Because I never told you that I loved you,”
Your heart pounds, loud and hard, almost painful with it. contact against your chest. And you eye him suspiciously, staring deep into those umber eyes of his, searching for any kind of fathomless reason for him to use this opportunity for a sadistic joke just to hurt you. But alas, you knew Steve. He was never the type of man to hurt a woman’s feelings over an insensitive joke, let alone hurt a woman with cruel words other than ignorance (speaking from experience).
But still, you’re left befuddled. Why now, out of all the opportunities, has he decided to tell you he loves you? Is he using this to make up for all the pain he’s caused you? Or because he thinks you at least deserve to know that he does love you, just not in love, and now he’s got the opportunity to say it to you.
And why, out of all times, do you feel bile rise up to your throat?
“Steve…”
“Babe,” he reaches over. But you squirm away from his touch that makes his face fall, eyebrows raised into a small melancholy hill of pain when you flinch by the faintest touch of his hand. “(y/n), come on,”
“I think I’m gonna throw up,”
Steve pales. “Fuck,” he looks behind him, hand rummaging over the random shit on the floor before he looks back at you in panic. “I don’t have bags—”
“Fucking hell,” you unlatch the door, hurling it aside until your feet hit the wet asphalt and rain starts to pour on you. Steve stares at you in disbelief.
“Where are you going?” he yells, but he follows right after you slam the door shut, tracing your footsteps as you walk away from his car and hunch over the side. “It’s raining! Just, puke in the trunk or something!”
You shake your head, gasping as you place your hands on your knees, heaving. Steve walks over to you, raindrops falling on the tips of his eyelashes that make him blink rapidly. “Stay there, Harrington. Come any closer and I’m hurling at your shoes,”
His hands raise, scrutinizing you out of worry. You compose yourself, straightening your back and running your hand through your hair that’s been dampened by the heavy rainfall. And Steve — Steve looks so desperate, even more now that the rain has fallen upon him and makes him look like a sad puppy. With his eyes twinkling and his hair fallen into a thick mop that he slicks back, lips parted to breathe.
“You’re not sick, aren't you?” he says softly in the thunderous impact of rains on road.
You shake your head, finding the courage to walk over to him and pull on the shirt that sticks to your chest. The rain on your wound hurts, but it doesn't matter anymore.
“Let me rephrase my words then,” Steve readjusts himself, finally letting his whole body turn to face you. “I love you, and I’ve been in love with you since you told me that I deserved being called bullshit by Nancy. I love you because you’re the second person to give me that bump in the head right after she did and that made me realize that you were it for me. I love you because you put me right on track. You actually told me that I was an asshole and if you hadn't, maybe I’d still be that asshole till this day,
“The thing about my future? The six, stupid little nuggets that I told Nancy?” He takes your chin into his hand, rubbing the skin below your lips. “I always saw you in there. It was never her. I thought it was her until you hit me in my goddamn head. It’s always been you, (y/n),” Steve murmurs. “All it took was three bumps to the head for me to realize all that. And — and I’m sorry if I acted like I didn't care when you dumped me. But I’ve always cared.”
“Then why didn't you?” your bottom lip wobbles. “Why didn't you care when I broke up with you?”
“I was pretending,” Steve reaches over to push the hair sticking from your face, rubbing your eyelids with his wet thumbs so you’d see clearer. “I just- I was an idiot, okay? When you broke up with me, I thought it was for the best because both of us were just processing things. I had work and you had to go back to school and we’d drifted apart after Starcourt. I wasn't there for you. And you deserve someone who’s going to be by your side everyday. Not someone who… can barely finish a fight they started.”
Steve Harrington, a man whose language was dipshit and the surnames of his kids, astounds you with his lengthy confession. Steve Harrington, who thinks cheesy rom coms are full of unrealistic scenarios and shitty plot lines, tells you he’s in love with you with the rain pouring down on your trembling bodies, like a scene from a movie he hates. Steve Harrington, the man you swore to forget and to never look back to when you leave this town, has his face in your hands and his lips pulled to yours.
His mouth’s hot, familiar and welcoming like it always was. Like a missing puzzle piece found beneath the couch, his lips locking with yours in a kiss so tender and balmy it puts the cold rain to shame as it warms you. Steve puts his hands on your waist and pulls you closer to him, drowning out the sounds of passing cars that honk at the both of you and the thunder that claps in the grey sky.
You pry your lips apart, wet with the rain and the slick of his pink mouth. And you push the thick strand of hair from his face, Steve slowly opening his eyes to stare deeply into yours.
“You don't have to say it back,” he mutters. “Not now. Only when you want to.”
“I can't believe I kissed you,”
He smiles a little. “Me neither.”
“That was kind of stupid,”
“... I liked it.” He takes your hands off his face, running his thumbs along the little scars scattered all over. “Let me make it up to you, please?”
He kisses you again. And again. And again; making up for all those sleepless nights he hadn't kissed you and curled to his side instead. Making up for all those times he made you feel like he didn't care; making up for all those times he wasn't there when you wanted him to. A kiss, although almost futile to rid of the pain he’s caused you, brings you to cloud nine and makes you putty in his large hands.
Steve walks backwards, taking you with him until he blindly hits the backdoor of his car, a hand leaving you to grasp its handle.
“Steve—”
“Let me—” his eyebrows furrow, words muffled with the touch of your puffy lips, “—make it up to you. Come on, babe.”
You nod against him, your own hand finding his to pull on the door handle. Steve dips his body and falls onto the leather seat, taking you with him that you land on top, your chest smushing against his, your clothings dripping to the carpet and onto the leather of his car.
“We’re gonna get your seats wet—”
“I don't care,” he sits up, making you straddle his lap as he reaches behind you to close the door. “Can just wipe it off after.”
“But what about our clothes?”
Despite this, you pull on his shirt. Steve discards it swiftly, a rip faintly heard before dropping it onto the floor with a wet thump. “You’re really concerned about that right now?”
Scars from the bites. Brazen and threatening, bumpy when your fingers traced its uneven and cruel mark left on his skin. At nights, Steve would stare at them. Think of how hideous they were, thought about how they'd ruin him forever. But with your admiring, soft touch, he feels as if its a reminder that he'd survived because of you. Because of your persistence despite the pain he's caused you; you look at it as if it's that perfect flaw in every painting, uncanny, grotesque, but beautiful.
You place your hand on his chest, feeling the hair damp against your palm as you break away from him. Steve grasps your waist, bunches the wet material of your shirt in his hand as he looks at you with the dusk of arousal blooming his pupils. Eyes wide in anticipation and lips puffy for more, he slides his hands beneath your shirt to warm the coldness of your flesh.
“You sure about this?” he finally whispers. You push his hair behind his ear, giving him a chaste peck.
“We’re here now, aren't we?” you tell him. Steve smiles, bright like the lightning that hits the road. He kisses you again, his hands grasping at your shirt from beneath until he rips it apart. The tear makes you gasp, agape as you watch him throw it aside. “I bought that from The Gap, you know? It was kind of expensive.”
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he starts kissing your neck, nipping and sucking the rain off your skin. And when he sucks harder, there’s a light prick that stings your neck, only to be soothed by his warm tongue that he lathers over, his teeth grazing your flesh but never biting.
Steve’s hand comes up to toy with the clasp of your bra, hands positioned to push but he never does. Not when you’re holding his face against your neck like he’s feeding off you, stuffing your nose in his hair and inhaling his rich cologne drowned out with the smell of rain.
“Jus’ take it off,” you kiss his temple.
“Alright,”
He does, untroubled as he easily unclasps its tiny hooks and lets it fall to your sides. Steve’s hand cups around your shoulders, hooking his fingers on the lace strap and pulls it down your arms as his lips stay planted on your neck, watching as they fall off flawlessly and onto your lap.
Leaving one last kiss to your neck, he moves down to wrap his lips around the skin of your bare breasts, throwing your bra to the passenger seat. You gasp, head throwing back with your hands grasping at his hair.
“Fuck, Steve,” you whimper, moving your hips on his thick crotch with the guidance of his hand, the other massaging a tit into his mouth as he suckles at your buds, looking up at you adoringly.
“Baby I want you to,” he kisses you again, slowly laying down but his hands keep you in place. Steve looks up at you with heavy eyelids, grasping at your tits as you grind down onto him. “Want you to sit on my face.”
Your grinding slows, hands palming at his chest. “Really?”
“Yeah— fuck, honey. Just want you to. Please,” Steve pulls on the waistband of your jeans, unbuttoning them. “C’mon baby.”
“Okay,” you raise your hips, a foot coming down to the carpet to remove your jeans, head bumping slightly onto the roof of his car. Your back hunches awkwardly, embarrassed that Steve’s seeing you struggling but he doesn't care, not when his tongue darts out between his lips in anticipation as you bring your panties with your jeans.
Steve pulls you immediately to him, until your knees are on either side of his head and his hands hard and heavy on your thighs to keep you levitating above him. He’s kissing stars on your thighs, knows with the way your hips jut impatiently that you want more other than sorry, coaxing kisses. With your hand on the backseat and one on his hair, he leans up to take a whiff of your leaking arousal, groaning when he smells the sweet honey.
“Christ, (y/n),” he kneads your ass. “Don't be shy. Just sit.”
And you do, carefully lowering yourself onto his mouth opens and his tongue darts out to lap at your dripping hole. You moan loudly, looking down to see him dig his nose on your clit and his hair all disheveled from your pulling. “Oh, Steve,”
He hums against you, dragging his tongue on your folds until his lips wrap around your clit. You grind on his face, small pants and whimpers leaving your mouth when he groans. “You taste amazing. Like fucking— fucking amazing. Sweet little pussy stayed the same.”
A finger prods on your wet entrance, tracing your small hole until it slips in, incessant until his pointer’s buried knuckle deep. And when he pulls out with a slick gush, he puts in two without warning, stretching your hole open with two of his thick limbs, scissoring them as he laps up at your swollen clit.
“That’s it,” he growls, sucking harder on your bud with a little head shake as his fingers begin scissoring at a pace so tantalizingly slow it drives you insane. “Ride my face, baby. Use me.”
He finds himself falling a bit more harder when he looks up to see your face scrunched in all your heavenly glory as you lose yourself in that rainstorm of rapture with your eyebrows joint and your jaw slacked to emit its euphonious moaning. Finds himself submitting more than he expected as he digs himself deeper into you, your own taste marking him more than he’d marked you when your slick coats half of his face.
Your hand finds itself using his stomach as leverage, leaning back to give Steve a better perspective. And the other remains on his hair, tugging deeper when he removes his fingers and continues using his tongue instead, taking your hand off his hair to lace it with yours.
“Shit,” you puff, hand tightening around his. Steve opens his eyes, the tip of his nose glistening as he flicks his tongue up and down between your folds. He uses his other hand to spread your petals with his fingers shaped into a v, prodding his tongue in your tight hole until it’s fully fucking you. “Ngh—ah, oh god, your tongue feels so good,”
A taste of forbidden fruit, has him drunk and fucking his tongue deeper to venture more of your sweet walls. You squeeze around his thick muscle, mewling louder that you worry you’re heard amongst the continuous roaring thunder. Steve groans against you, his own stomach clenching beneath your hand, tongue exploring everything that’s wet, flicking it against every spongy spot. He’d suck at your swollen nub, lap at your hole like some faucet, knead your ass to urge you harder on his tongue.
“I’m close,” you gasp, eyes rolling to the back of your head. “I wanna cum, Stevie.”
“Then cum,” he untucks his tongue from inside you, licking up from your hole to your clit. “Cum for me, baby. Come on.”
And when the thick substance of your sweet cum smears his tongue, he swallows and he swallows like it's the last water in this world. And he’s greedy for more, pushing his tongue in until he’s milked you and dried the cum off your walls, lapping up at the juices of your sticky cunt until you pull yourself away from him.
You hover on his lap as Steve slowly sits up, chasing your lips as if your pussy wasn't enough; but you let him kiss you, nonetheless. The taste of him and your cum evading your mouth as you sit on his lap, soft wet clicking made by your lips every time your mouths closed on one another. Your hands find the button of his tight jeans, toying with it.
“I want you,” he whispers. “Please, baby. You can have me now. Make up for all those times I haven't been there.”
Steve lifts himself to untuck his jeans, stopping only below his knees so you’d rest your cunt right on his thick, hard cock that slaps against his stomach. You run your palm through your wet heat, using it to jerk him off that makes his forehead fall against yours from its sensitivity.
“I have you now, right?” you position his tip at your entrance.
“You’ll have me always,” and when he looks at you devotedly, like the moment wasn’t so unsanctified, you find yourself kissing him again. Like you’d found a place with someone to escape like a flower in the dark, blooming in the twilight just by your palliating touch. That hesitant love you’d felt blossoming from the broken ground and grows in the uncut grass, just enough for him to pick up and cherish.
You sink down to him, hole gaping for him to slip inside your tight walls. Steve moans against your lips, hands tight above your ass as you go down on him.
“Slow down, hon,” you shake your head. You hate being told what to do, deciding to just drop down onto him until your ass slaps against his heavy balls full of cum. “Jesus Christ—”
“So big, Steve,” you slur, head falling to his shoulder. “Cock feels so good…”
“Yeah, baby?” he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “This cock’s made just for you. Use it babe, come on.”
And you do, slowly grinding on to him, his thick cock stretching you more, his hands guiding you and urging you to a pace you wish to move on.
You don't know how long you’d been riding him. Alternating between teasing grinds and greedy bounces that has your walls squeezing around him. And god, Steve finds himself submitting more to you, despite the amount of marks he’d left on your neck and chest that muffles the loud moans threatening to leave his throat.
Steve wraps his mouth around your nipple, his cock disappearing from your cunt, the wet squelching turning him more to the edge whenever you’d slam down onto his balls. You moan in his ear, soft and small, almost innocent. But it’s not innocent at all — not with him balls deep, or his mouth on your tit, or the wet sounds created. Steve looks at the reflection from the window, a mischievous glint in his eyes when he urges you faster.
Everything felt familiar. Everything felt the same; everything felt like he never stopped loving you. Not with those gentle, lascivious touches. Not with the way he kisses you. You find yourself back in his arms just a year ago, being comforted in this heaven of his that keeps you from what hurts you, right before he'd pushed you off the clouds (and before he'd caught you himself).
“I missed this,” he huffs. “A lot. Touched myself to the thought of this. Then I’d feel so guilty. But now I don't have to,” you push on his shoulder, bumping your nose with his. “I missed you. And this tight little pussy. And your sweet, dirty sounds — ah. Fuck. Missed the way your cunt would just squeeze around me. Always using my cock hm?”
“Shut up,” you furrow your eyebrows, mouth parting. “I’m close again, Steve. God, you’re such an asshole,”
He chuckles. “What did I do?”
“You and your— your words. Fuck!” you squeal, clutching hard on his shoulders. “Are you close?”
“I’ve been close since you sat on my face. Think I even came in my pants while I was doing it,” he chuckles. “God, I’m gonna cum.”
You both do. Without warning but simultaneous. When both your seeds would mix when you kept on pushing his cum deep into you with every slow bounce you’d make. Steve exhales into your sweaty skin, both your hairs dried but slick with sweat.
When he looks at you again, like a star he’s found in the polluted sky of Hawkins, like a miracle fallen onto the palm of his hand, your heart flutters and builds itself again right in his touch. And it’s filthy, the way your cums would slip down to his thighs and onto the cushions of his car, but his touch’s clean and innocent in its intentions. A promise of never letting go; a promise of always being there to love you and being enough.
—
“I’m still going,”
The storm's gone. Left with nothing but the light rain that taps gently on his windows. The smell of Steve comforts you, despite the sticky smell of sex and sweat stings your nose from the leather you lay on.
He wraps the blanket he found beneath the seats around the both of you, your head on his chest and your hands linked together. Your squirming doesn't bother his concerns, but your sudden declaration does and Steve lifts his head to look at you.
Your eyebrows raise, legs tangled with his and your chin on the bush on his chest. “I’ve got a lovely apartment. A job that I found. I’m gonna work at the record store,” you trace the slope of his nose, sculpted by the hands of gods who’d given him all this sweet handsomeness. “And… It's got a lovely view, too. I need this, Steve.”
His hand runs through your hair, twirling your drying strands in his fingers. “I won't stop you. But I don't want to watch you leave again,”
“Then come with me,” you whisper. “It has a huge bedroom. And a kitchen, Steve. A pretty kitchen and a huge living room. A TV for when the kids would come and visit.” he chuckles at your pout. “Only when you want to.”
Unhesitating and prepared, he nods. “Alright. I’ll come.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” he kisses you. “I’d follow you anywhere. Robin has Vickie now, anyway. I can— I can work at a coffee shop. Wear a cute little apron and drink coffee.” he smiles softly, deep lines decorating his tan skin. "And I'll be there when you get home. Smother you with love."
“Wouldn't be opposed to that," you smile at him.
reblogs and feedback are appreciated <3
#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington x fem!reader#steve harrington x you#steve harrington x y/n#steve harrington smut#steve harrington angst#steve harrington fluff#steve harrington one shot#steve harrington x reader smut#steve harrington fic#steve harrington fanfiction#steve harrington#stranger things#stranger things x reader#stranger things x you#stranger things x y/n#stranger things fic#stranger things fanfiction#joe keery#x reader
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BnHA Chapter 408: Orphaned Cryptid to Billionaire Supervillain
Previously on BnHA: HE WAS BORN AN ARROGANT BABY.
Today on BnHA: Horikoshi decides he’s going to cover the rest of the AFO/OFA saga in the span of just seven pages, the majority of which are mostly just filled with lovingly detailed closeups of AFO and Kudou’s eyes. Back in the present day, Kid For One takes a couple of seconds to trample the last of the “Kacchan is OFA II or is related to OFA II” theories into the dust, and is then all “fuck it, I’ll just take him out with one last spectacularly grotesque supermove.” Kacchan is all “lol you fucking dipshit”, and he says it with such confidence that it truly makes me believe he can defeat AFO’s “ALL THE QUIRKS EVER!!” attack with his piddly little exploding bloodsweat quirk. AND IT WILL BE A SIGHT TO SEE.
interesting!
Yoichi’s name btw is written with the kanji 与 which means “bestow” or “give”, and 一 which means “one.” so basically “one who gives”, which is fitting as the creator of OFA, but also fits in with this new context of being the first “possession” bestowed upon AFO
oh yes and also AFO I guess has just torn his brother to shreds or something too. idk. I’m going to be honest with you guys, this panel has such a surreal vibe that I just sat here blinking stupidly at it and wasn’t even shocked or anything. like what. is he dreaming this?? or did he really just make a “STOP! IN THE NAAAAME OF LOVE” gesture and in doing so remove half of his brother’s jaw
ewww
idk what’s wrong with me today guys. AFO just disintegrated Yoichi, and Kudou and and OFA Tres (who apparently still doesn’t have a name???? freaking Kudou got named before you??) are literally RIGHT THERE and presumably horrified, and all I can think about is how fucking gross it is that they’re all hanging out in a fucking sewer
oh shit y’all it’s about to go down
he can’t kill Kudou right off the bat can he? does Kudou even know he has OFA yet? are we going to see him transfer it to OFA III? I’m so fucking excited omg
LOL WHAT
“weirdly matte” omg. so apparently he’s like All Might, where the “he’s just drawn differently” thing is something people actually acknowledge in-story. “yeah he actually has no pupils. that’s a real thing. technically that should mean he can’t see since pupils are what let light into your eyes, but don’t worry about that part. just know that his eyes canonically look weird to the story people as well, and everyone is creeped out by it, not just you”
yeah he’s actually blind
so he literally can’t see outside himself. way to lay those metaphors on thick, Horikoshi
(ETA: this is my “just in case my impeccably dry wit doesn’t translate well across the internet” ETA to assure everyone I know he’s not actually blind lol.)
now we’re cutting to some random city where AFO is broodingly staring at Yoichi’s severed hand because he’s perfected the art of always doing incredibly unsettling things
I cannot believe the fucking hands thing has an actual origin story. of course it does. this man has never done a single hinged thing in his life. it’s all unhinged or bust. am I talking about AFO or Horikoshi? YOU DECIDE
he’s sitting at a table with a bottle of wine holding his dead brother’s embalmed severed limb and thinking about fucking quirk shit
so your transformation from Orphaned Cryptid to Billionaire Supervillain happened almost completely offscreen huh. I’m kinda disappointed, ngl. I could have read a few more chapters about that. maybe a spinoff miniseries
WAIT WHAT
are you serious. we finally get a panel that’s INCREDIBLY RELEVANT to pretty much ALL OF MY BNHA THEORIES, only for that same panel to contradict itself ONE SPEECH BUBBLE LATER?? so what is the truth???
omg omg omg
so many fucking questions, omg. what the hell does “through research” even mean. how did he confirm Yoichi’s quirklessness, and why did he later change his mind? how the fuck can Yoichi have a quirk factor and yet not have an actual quirk. “it was just so weak it didn’t count or something I guess” okay??? how much of this is unreliable narrator vs. the word of god? how is it we’re getting so many answers and yet all I have is more fucking questions you guys
BRUE?CE?CEE??!
bruce
Kudou is so goddamned hot. I hope you washed the hell out of that arm wound after getting it all covered in sewage you stupid sexy man
I can’t get over Three’s name. “idk if anyone noticed, but it’s kind of a subtle homage to another very famous superhero” Horikoshi your nap wasn’t long enough, please go home
also love how Bruce is talking shit about OFA being a puny loser quirk for wimps. how the fuck do they even know what’s going on, anyway? was there a tutorial???
oh you just had a feeling huh??? that it was “something like this”, huh??? how is it that I, who knows all about OFA because I’m from the future and have read 408 chapters of this nonsense, am somehow still less in the know than this handsome clown who doesn’t know shit but just “had a feeling”
(ETA: while editing this post I noted that Bruce is sitting in front of a computer in what seems to be some sort of medical lab, so maybe they ran some tests or something? except that only makes me more confused, because it implies they didn’t actually figure out OFA’s workings via convenient plot instincts. so then how the fuck did they figure out the transfer process?? questions)
meanwhile AFO is sitting in the panel next to him whining about how someone stole Yoichi’s quirk. excuse you. he did not steal it. it was in fact a gift
these flashbacks are all jumbled up and it’s unexpectedly fun to read, but also really chaotic
I guess he’s talking to Kudou on the right and AFO on the left
so many intense closeups of eyes in this chapter oh my goodness
Horikoshi even drew the individual goddamn eyelashes. this looks like the margins of someone’s notebook from when they were really bored in middle school
oh my god the information overload!!!
so much for AFO actually feeling emotions lol. or is he just lying to himself about why he cried. that delicious ambiguity
so we don’t even get a flashback explaining how the transfer actually happened?? to either Kudou OR my beloved Bruce?? goddamn you Horikoshi. omg I would seriously kill for more of this. make a movie about it. I want the OFA origin story prequel movie damn it
I like how AFO just sits there on a throne holding court with a single tiki torch beside him for aesthetic reasons
I can’t quite figure out how he killed Banjou and I’m not sure I really want to know. it looks very violent
friendly reminder that Shinomori is Sir Not Appearing In This Flashback because he’s the only OFA user who died of natural causes! good for you Shinomori. En probably wishes he was more like you
poor En
was Nana just taking a stroll or something one day and stumbled across this epic fight with the evilest man on the planet vs some kid in a trenchcoat, and then the poor kid got bisected and he looked at her and he was all “please eat my hair” and she was just like “ok”?
OH WOW
what a transition omg
LOLLLLLLLL
you know, part of me always wondered how All Might was so certain he’d killed AFO that he apparently never bothered to confirm it. but looking at this panel now, I can understand
fjjfdzjgf
he’s sweating so much. like “okay yeah he punched the top of his face off, this is pretty bad but I’LL DO MY BEST”
BACK TO THE PRESENT DAY AWW SHUCKS
so let’s recap. over on Kacchan’s side we have “GOTTA USE THE PAIN TO WIN!!!” haha ouch. and then over here on KFO’s side we have. whatever the fuck we just experienced over these past two chapters. so basically it’s a battle between the two most deranged characters in the entire series. glorious sweet chaos
DSFJKSLDKGJL he’s now trying to figure out how the fuck they look so much alike and whether they’re actually related
“no, that can’t be it. so then maybe... this kid grows up and then somehow travels back in time...?!” HE’S JUST LIKE US FR
so now he’s saying it’s because Kacchan didn’t have character development yet the last time, but now that he does his eyes are all Full Of Determination just like Kudou’s and so we’ve basically come full circle!
transcended WHAT? :O :D :D omg I’m kidding you guys please don’t hurt me
lol
actually the more we learn about Kudou the less I personally see the resemblance now lol. because Kudou seems so calm and collected, but Kacchan is just... [gestures to literally everything about Kacchan]
so AFO’s trying to strategize, but he can’t warp Kacchan away because the only available targets are too close and he’s still got that SUPERSPEED, BOYO so it wouldn’t make a difference. lol but if you kept doing it repeatedly it might be kind of funny though
and he can’t keep fighting him either because he’s getting his ass whooped and it’s speeding up his de-aging or whatever. well you could just give up then I guess. your call, AFO
oh was that your plan?
spoiler alert for me lol. but it’s not exactly shocking or anything since he’s dying, guess he wants to abandon ship
(ETA: just FYI for anyone reading this who’s not familiar with my dumbassery, I have currently only read chapters 1 through 374 at this point in time, before skipping ahead to 403 because Kacchan came back and I lost all willpower. I am working on catching up with the rest!)
oh so now you did come up with a strategy?
lmao what the FUCK
how much of this is going to be clearer to me once I finish the chapters that I missed, and how much of it is just plain old “nope this is all brand new zero-context BnHA bullshit” lol. this looks like every single quirk AFO ever absorbed combined into one gigantic horrifying blob that forced Horikoshi to take an extra week just to draw it
oh my god!?
Kacchan hovering there bravely facing all this is giving me Gandalf “you shall not pass” vibes and I’m LIVING FOR IT
so either AFO is going to kill Kacchan for the second time right here and now, or he’s going to fail and turn back into a squishy evil baby fdslfjkls
love how All Might is all “DODGE IT YOUNG BAKUGOU!” thanks for the warning, champ. doing his part
more exploding bloodsweat closeups. are these just going to be a mainstay of Kacchan fights from now on
“are you stupid?”, when faced with [gestures to the entirety of the previous page], is possibly the best line ever uttered by anyone in the series. even better than the polite “coming through” uttered only seconds before it
ah man. you love to see it. he literally doesn’t even care. HE ALREADY DIED ONCE TODAY, AND IT CLUED HIM IN TO THE FACT THAT HE’S A MAIN CHARACTER AND ACTUALLY IMMUNE TO DEATH. sorry AFO it’s curtains for you. CURTAINS
#bnha 408#all for one#bakugou katsuki#ofa the second#kudou (bnha)#bnha#boku no hero academia#bnha spoilers#mha spoilers#bnha manga spoilers#makeste reads bnha
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Dreamling Week June 7: 'Fake Dating' | human au
This was a mistake.
Dream sits outside the fitting room, back against a mirror as he waits for Hob to come out and show him his next choice. They were going to a wedding together, which in itself was fine, but the context behind it…
Dream should have said no. Should have scathingly told Hob to grow a pair and just deal with his family’s judgment. It wasn’t a bad thing to be single, but apparently in Hob’s family, being single at 35 years old, and for the past nine years, was a problem.
Dream had often wondered how Hob had remained single for such a long time, he knew his friend was a catch. Charismatic, wicked smart, and roguishly handsome to boot. Dream couldn’t deny how he’d often catch himself staring at Hob, looking twice at him when they went out with friends, his smile wide and posture loose from a couple drinks. Or while Dream would help him build lesson plans, peeking sideways as Hob’s glasses began to slip down his nose and his hair would fall in his face.
Or while he was trying on suits for his cousin’s wedding. Where they would be attending as a couple.
“Hob…” Dream had given him a flat look, controlling his features into something unreadable while his heart threatened to burst from his chest. “This is absurd. Could we not attend as we are– as friends?”
“That’s the easiest part!” Hob’s eyes were wide and imploring. “We’re already friends! They won’t even question it.”
And then he’d gone on a tirade that Dream was quite familiar with, having been Hob’s friend for so long, about how his family had moved on from being subtle to outright dogging Hob about his love life. Why hadn’t he settled down yet? Who was going to continue the Gadling name, if not their only son? At your age… With your talents and charms… Such a waste… on and on and Hob, understandably, was sick of it.
Any further complaints had died on Dream’s tongue. He should have tried harder to convince Hob that this was a stupid idea. That his family’s opinion didn’t matter. That Hob should keep living as he had been in spite of it all. Because honestly, in what universe could this possibly work? How does this not end with Dream vulnerable and weak and wanting?
Because Dream was head over heels obsessed with Hob. No, he wouldn’t say the L word. It wasn’t like that. He knew better than to fall into that trap again. It was easier, somehow, to be a little more deranged about it. A little unhinged… delusional.
Especially as he watched Hob walk out of the little changing room for the third time now, eyes stuck on the jacket around Hob’s shoulders, broad and strong, accentuating the lines of his arms and back, cinched slightly at the waist. His thoughts tripping and staggering as Hob’s long legs move to a full length mirror across from Dream, unashamedly staring at Hob’s thighs, firm and thick, and up to his ass, which the dark blue slacks hugged so well.
Hob is pulling on the collar, turning this way and that, oblivious to the war raging inside of Dream.
“I don’t know about this one…” Hob is murmuring, tugging now on end of the sleeves. “Not sure if blue is my color.”
Blue is absolutely Hob’s color. Dream wants to say how fetching it looks against Hob’s golden brown skin, how it makes him look regal yet soft. How great it would look on the floor of the hotel room they would be staying at– oh fuck, Dream had forgotten about that. They’d be sharing a room.
Dream stood just as Hob kicked a leg out, looking down.
“And the pants are too long.”
“We can get that hemmed,” Dream kept his face impassive as he stepped up behind Hob, briefly meeting his eyes in the mirror before looking at the jacket.
He brushed his hands across Hobs shoulders, dusting off invisible lint, then down his back, straightening out invisible wrinkles. Before looking up again at the floor length mirror across from them.
They are nearly of height, Dream has maybe half an inch on Hob and can see how he stands behind Hob in the reflection. Can see how Hob has stilled and his eyes locked onto his. How he is staring back at Hob, his pupils shaking slightly, like he’s staring at something delicious. Dream swallows, letting his imagination wander.
He thinks about pressing up against Hob’s back, so his groin would slip comfortably against that perfectly round ass, how it might feel to get his hands on Hob’s waist, pulling so he could feel the way Hob’s shoulders fit atop Dream’s chest.
How Dream’s hands would slip around to Hob’s front, getting his fingers inside the fitted jacket and pressing them incessantly– intentionally, along the soft cotton of the white button down, how Hob’s skin might feel against it. How Dream’s hands would trail up to his chest, undoing those buttons as he went, revealing the thick dark hairs there and getting briefly distracted enough to comb his fingers through that mane, tilting his head to growl in Hob’s ear as he tightened his fingers and pulled just to hear what noise Hob would make in return.
And while Dream’s lips were at Hob’s ear, he’d trail them down to his neck, biting into the unmarked flesh, tasting the salt and aftershave with his tongue, peppering kisses even lower as he pulled the fabric of the shirt and jacket off his shoulders completely and imagining the eager, wanton grown that would tumble from Hob’s lips as he tilted his head back, getting his own hand around the back of Dream’s head to pull him in for a sloppy kiss–
Dream blinked and found himself still standing behind Hob, who was fully dressed and looking back at him and– was he breathing heavy?
The daydream only lasted a second, just a flash of a fantasy Dream indulged in, but now he wonders if he’d been too obvious. He’s staring back at Hob, pupils dilated and lips parted slightly, like a panting dog about to pounce.
Dream clears his throat and looks down the length of the mirror, accidentally settling them on the seat of Hob’s pants and distractedly averting his gaze again to Hob’s back, the dark blue fabric before him.
“You look good, Hob.” Dream manages to force the words out, his voice lower than usual, hungry. “I think this is the one.”
“Yeah.” Why does Hob sound breathless? “Yeah I like this one.”
Dream nods and forces every cell in his body to step back, away from Hob and allow him to turn back to the fitting room. He keeps his gaze down, waiting until Hob is conveniently out of sight before he allows the heat he can feel crawling up his neck to make its way to his face.
[for @watercubebee and our shared obsession with seeing Hob in nice clothes and wanting Dream to tear them off of him *handshake*]
#dreamling#hob x dream#dreamlingweek#dreamlingweek2023#this isn't the smut i promised and for that i apologize lol#some day i will write them fucking in a fitting room#mark my words!#my writing
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Hooty is such a wonderfully inexplicable, inherently chaotic character. How would one even describe him to an outsider? Like everyone else fulfills familiar narrative roles and archetypes and tropes, Luz is the young female protagonist going through a coming of age, Eda is that jaded older mentor who learns to open up and struggles with a curse that is in effect a disability. King is the cute animal sidekick with a surprising amount of nuance and depth and motivation, with a divine plot twist heritage to be revealed. And then there’s HOOTY...
He’s like. The house? A living house? He’s some sort of bird... worm...??? He’s kinda cute but also really disturbing? He’s utterly unhinged and mad? Everyone is creeped out by him? He’s all-powerful and messed up and, just, HOW would you explain Hooty!? How would one even imagine what he is from the description, he’s truly. I haven’t really seen anything LIKE him. Maybe that just means I need to expand my media literacy but Hooty sure is an anomaly. Both the literal definition and what he is to the role as this weird and powerful, creepy but also unusually cute, cursed thing??? Who just raises more and more questions why is he like this. Who came up with this.
Who took the idea of an owl that’s part of a house and then made it more and more disturbing by expanding on the logistics and implications, the idea that this cutest birb is actually really freaking weird as a tube when people stop to look at and appreciate the strange disproportionate physique. And ultimately hiding some eldritch anatomy and secrets, but a facade for that, only to still have his precious moments??? Nobody in-universe is really sure what he is either and is also disturbed and mixed, further vindicating the audience’s feelings???
He’s such a weird concept to wrap one’s head around for a character. What was the thought process and development. Did Dana just wake up one day and decided she needed a character like this as part of the main cast??? I dunno but it compels me in an unusual way. What is going on in Hooty’s mind and how did people decide and come up with that for his character?! Why does Hooty only raise MORE questions the more you learn about him and how he defies expectation and logic. What other character is there in media that is even like this!? This... bird worm truly is one of a kind.
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Other small questions about zombie Evan....
What's his favorite show?
You mentioned before that moving hurts him, How much does it hurt. is it enough hurting that he just never moves?
Does he ever go outside like ever?
His favorite show... hmmm... well, he wouldn't like comedies or cartoons. He's an emotional, traumatized wreck and doesn't have it in him to laugh anymore. Humor is lost on him, drowned in numbness and fear and pain. Even if he could laugh, the movement would hurt.
He doesn't want to watch sad things. He's sad enough already. Sometimes a certain type of sad thing will resonate with him, make him feel understood and less lonely, but mostly, they just make him feel worse.
Adventure genres are out for the most part, too. They're filled with so much violence and horror. Evan's had quite enough of that.
Family dramas make him feel sad and lonely.
I think the thing he feels safest while watching would be something informative, like a documentary. If any exist in the 90s (when SL takes place), he would probably watch a show detailing all of NASA's latest discoveries and explaining space. Evan might be too young to understand most of it, but at least he likes the pretty pictures of space. He'd watch nature documentaries, too, if not for the scary scenes of animals hurting and killing each other.
For your other questions. Every movement Evan makes hurts. He can feel every bone grinding together with each movement, with no muscle there to facilitate it. Moving his hands is the worst; there's so many small bones there, grinding together, so many clicking out of place and into a wrong, uncomfortable, painful position each time he twitches his hand even the slightest.
Then again, the pain is mostly in his head. Like phantom limb pains. There's been many times when Evan’s skin has ripped and his limbs popped off entirely, and Evan never even noticed. He would look down and there his arm is, unattached, dangling in place only by his sleeve. Evan goes to take another step, except he doesn't realize the aching in his leg is a phantom limb pain, that his leg is gone; he "places" a foot that doesn't exist anymore on the ground and faceplants on the floor. The impact chips his fragile teeth, unhinges his barely re-attached lower jaw and sends it skittering all the way across the room; new cracks form in Evan’s skull. Maybe he has a couple of tear-like cracks running down from his eye sockets from this incident.
So, Evan doesn't move. It hurts too much, and he's so fragile. Both he and Mike are scared that Ev will hurt himself. Evan doesn't do much more than sit on the couch, which is ironic, really. Because Evan had a collapsed trachaea as a kid, and it meant that Ev couldn't breathe very easily; he would start wheezing and gasping at the slightest strain, and so spent more time watching tv and sitting stationary playing with his plushies and reading, rather than running around outside like other kids. In that way, Evan’s afterlife isn't so very different from his life-- or rather is a more twisted mirror of what his life once was.
He doesn't go outside. Mike feels so guilty for the state Evan is in, but then again, he doesn't fight Ev too much on the never going outside thing. How can either of them ever go outside again when living like this?
#Did i name this au?#Can't remember#Either way this au really needs a name...#tw body horror#evan afton support center
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A much darker question, how does Chrystal Heights deal with unhinged people?
Example: A man is dating/married to a woman who goes out for a girls night and runs across an Alpha. She gets knocked up and a few days later, 'someone' has smashed that Alpha's head in with a bat.
Would it be regular cops investigating or a group of Alphas in a lynch mob? Would that 'someone' get a trial or just silently be disappeared?
It's an interesting question that I can't give a perfect answer to. Unfortunately I'm not good at those type of stories, although I'll concede it would make an awesome basis for a law enforcement procedural.
As for unhinged individuals, my story 'Hunter' involves a case where an agent has to pursue an escapee from a mental health clinic that houses patients with abilities. I struggled with that story a bit due to the dark nature of the antagonist's actions. The tag line is simply 'A man with great power and no mental, moral or ethical restraints escapes from the Chrystal Heights Mental Health Clinic.' This story was the prelude to my PsiCATs series, which was a team being put together for a major dark storyline.
If you like the dark, my Dark Wynd stories tend to be darker (or at least harder-core) than my Chrystal Wynd stories. Sometimes the bad guys win. My Dark Wynd story 'Ten Little Bimbos <And Then They Were Dumb>' involved a pretty dark storyline of an island of people being completely bimboed one-by-one for sins of their past, so to speak, and I think it's one of my better stories, despite the dark.
EDIT- Just re-read my answer and realized I turned this into a gee-look-what-I've-written post. Sorry about that. Your question is valid and if I ever get a storyline set up where I can maybe address some of it, I'll see what I can do. I suspect it's outside my wheelhouse, though. I'd likely go a less-violent-but-more-vengence-y route.
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Mr Cereal Korn + 5, 7, 8, 21 for the character ask game!
5. What's the first song that comes to mind when you think about them?
Roman by Eugene McGuinness!
This song was taken off Spotify for some unfathomable reason so it's not on my playlist any more but to me this is Syril's Song and nothing can change my mind. Every lyric just fits. Also Eugene McGuinness should have been a megastar of the 00s indie-pop scene & not a day goes by when I'm not mad about him staying as obscure as he did
7. What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you like?
I love how we all collectively latched onto him being *canonically 35 years old* in Season One. He's our washed up emotionally stunted millennial baby man and that's final <3
8. What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you despise?
I know I have ranted to you about this before (sorry) but I hate the "incel" stuff. Syril is an entirely different flavour of freak. He doesn't hit any of the beats of an "incel" character (like say Xander from Buffy). He's like, the absolute opposite of someone who's constantly trying to get laid - he is SO fucking uptight he's practically snapping in two. I can kind of see him as maybe one of those "nofap" idiots but again I think his motivations would be *so* much more unhinged than wanting to Attract High Value Women. He's like... a priest, to me. One of those ones who loves Jesus a little *too* much. Like, I'm a keero through and through but even when he's creeping around outside Dedra's work I genuinely don't think he understands what's driving that behaviour because he's always denied himself in service of being a Good Boy and that's SO MUCH MORE JUICY than him just being some 4chan guy.
21. If you're a fic writer and have written for this character, what's your favorite thing to do when you're writing for this character? What's something you don't like?
I love to Put Him In Stressful Situations. Like I have a great deal of affection for him but writing him in total despair and forced to make impossible choices is very fun for me. I don't like to deliberately make him look stupid (he can of course make a fool of himself). Like the previous question - it's so much more fun, personally, for me to put him in the spiritual equivalent of predicament bondage than just to point and laugh at him.
#*looks nervously at ao3 account*#yeah I just think of him like a priest. I definitely havent put any more thought into it than that#syril karn#syrilposting#monsieur cereal korn
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I'm in liquified disoriented tatters since the finale, but something I was meaning to say before this episode: I think Carpenter is like. 35, maybe 40, with a dash of "you look like shit" making people assume she's a bit older. the hunter siblings are absolutely teenagers as well.
also, a thought from the middle of the episode, before I was fully liquified:
At a certain point, Mercer wasn't much of a hunter anymore. She was just rabid.
[con't] Faulkner do you want to explain that thing you said to Mason. could you please. I don't. think I follow. faulkner
Incorrect! Carpenter is 45 at the bare minimum. I agree that at first (or second, or fifth) glance she looks older, but honestly she feels even older than that based on the fact that she has been keeping company with twenty somethings for the last two years. (Faulkner being max 22 and Paige being 28 at the outside.) Hayward is the only person in the whole cast who we might consider 'of an age' with Carpenter, and mostly because he's in his late thirties/early forties and prematurely aged by a steady diet of stress-smoked cigarettes, lies, deserved guilt, and paranoia.
"Mercer is rabid" fuck you that's a good line.
I do actually have reasoning for this! There's a great post in the silt verses tag calling out how nonsense it seems for Faulkner to snap at his faith no longer being illegal. Surely that's a good thing! Religious persecution is the reason Nana Glass is dead and Em drowned; the reason for Carpenter's parents being absent and Mason running his a private cult. Real religions have fought tooth and nail to be recognized by the state as legitimate; most modern people understand a lack of religious tolerance as bad and wrong. There's no reason to believe that this wouldn't color our readings of a podcast about fictional religions.
What I think perspective ignores, is that---when it comes to TSV a religion's choice is not between "criminalization/persecution" and "recognition by the state/freedom." Instead, the existential question before every faith of the Peninsula and the Linger Straits is "criminalization" or "co-option". Your choices are either to be an enemy of the state, and operate under your own wild rules, however corrupt---or to throw your lot in with the government, and become yet another arm of the state trying to kill you. After all, it's the legitimate government tying sacrifices to trains, courting gods via test audience, letting dispassionate scientists discover your saints by scientific method with a body count. Stripping faith and narrative from your religion for the sake of power---like copper wire from the walls---is what the government does.
And that's what I think Faulkner objects to. For good or ill, he is the most sincere believer in the Trawler-man that we know---his investment isn't in the Parish and its earthly power, the way Mason's is; he doesn't particularly care about its people, as Carpenter does. He believes in the absolutism of its god and his role as that god's prophet. No more, no less.
Is this unreasonable, unhinged? Yes. But it does mean that Mason willing to sell out that divine absolutism for a seat at the Peninsulan table is an existential threat to Faulkner and everything he is.
Hence: Murder.
#tsv spoilers#the silt verses#the one benefit of being immersed in catholic european history for a while#is reinforcing that ''this person genuinely in their heart believed this about god and they moved mountains for it'' is a valid motivation#you can in part explain historical motivations by power and control! that was there too.#but if you ignore how deadly seriously people took theological questions for large swathes of history#you will not understand history.#(......this probably applies to modern day too I just haven't read enough books to confidently assert as much)
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writeblr positivity tag
my wonderful morbo @serenanymph tagged me <3 gently tagging @lyssa-ink @lena-rambles @zmwrites @winterandwords and under a cut because it's long. blank questions at the bottom <3
1. What motivates you to write?
the thought of holding the finished book in my hands and being able to reread it and share it. also spite
2. A line/short snippet of your writing that you are most proud/happy of. If not maybe share a line of someone else's work you love (just please credit them)
y'all wanna see maura be a little bit fucked up and evil
“My father said something to me often,” Maura interrupts, her eyes narrowing. “The law is the law. None are exempt.” She tosses a disdainful look at the duchess. “Those who have no respect for the law will always have excuses for breaking it.” She bends down and tips the duchess's chin up with a finger. Keelan's fingers tighten around his sword. Maura tilts her head to the side. “Your Grace,” she says. “You asked for mercy. You shall have it.”
The duchess sobs. “Thank you, Your Majesty—”
“Do not thank me, wretch.” Maura's lip curls. “Your mercy is the mercy allotted by law. Tell me. Which foot do you value more?”
The duchess's lip trembles. “I beg you, Your Majesty, mercy—”
“You shall have it.” Maura's eyes are unforgiving. “Which foot?”
The duchess's eyes dart around the throne room, wide and terrified. “I—I don't know.”
“Hm.” Maura releases her and stands. “She can have more time to decide. Until she does, get her out of my sight.”
3. Which OC makes you smile every time you think/talk about them and what are they like?
i love all my children equally this is a mean question. currently my favorite chew toy is Jack, who is a minor character in my current wip. Jack is a pathetic disaster bisexual who was left to die as an infant but still managed to survive to adulthood and is using that luck to cause problems on purpose. he steals for a living and flirts for fun and profit. he is in love with his best friend/accomplice Arthur, but can't handle real emotions and is being really thickheaded about it. Arthur is too busy pining for him to notice. Jack is just a little guy. gay boy disaster man. also he killed like 20 people.
4. What process of writing do you enjoy the most?
working out plot/worldbuilding issues. i love sitting down and going "ok how am i going to make this make any gddamn sense" and then bouncing ideas around until i hit one that fits perfectly. yeah sex is great but have you ever found the perfect answer to your plot hole that ties together all the recurring themes and arcs in the story AND has an opportunity to use your overcomplicated worldbuilding?
5. What part of writing do you think you are the best at? (Yes stroke your own ego it's okay)
mainly dialogue. i love imagining conversations and i've been working on dialogue for a long time. my dialogue used to be so cringey so glad i learned from it
6. What is something in the writeblr community is most enjoyable?
we're all a little unhinged about our own writing so nobody minds when you get a little unhinged about their writing. safe space to be unhinged about people's writing
7. A writing tool/device you use that helps you with writing? (It could be speech to text, a writing program etc)
i use campfire write and i love it for keeping worldbuilding organized. it has a lot of visual tools which is great for me personally and it's very customizable. highly recommend it, there is a free desktop version that still gets you quite a bit of usage and the mobile app is free
8. A piece of worldbuilding that you like in your own story? (It could be the magic system, a particular place in the story, a law etc)
i've really enjoyed fleshing out the countries outside of Raedora and how their political systems and cultures are different. for example Guildi also is monarchical, but they have an emperor and their law is absolute, followed exactly as written based on the judgment of the emperor. Fierodia, by contrast, is the homeland of the dragons, so they have two governments--one for the humans, and one for the dragons--and both are a little more democratic in nature, with a Council of the Wise (elders) ruling the dragons while the most powerful magical human families sit on another council that takes petitions from representatives sent by villages and cities.
9. What piece of advice would you say to encourage others to write if they are having a rough patch?
open a blank document. i do this in a simple text editor (.txt) because it forces me to look at the words more (idk how else to explain it). write the dumbest thing you can think of. literally. if you get stuck, hit enter a few times and start writing something else. yes even if you get stuck in the middle of a sentence. do NOT let yourself sit there staring at a blank document, just write. even if it's bad and stupid and doesn't make sense. ESPECIALLY if it's bad and stupid and doesn't make sense. write the stupid little plot bunnies that you came up with in line at starbucks. bullet point a short story you'll never write. purposefully write the most gd-awful purple prose. have some silly little fun with it. rewrite snl episodes that you think would be funnier if you were in charge. anytime you are stuck for more than like 30 seconds hit enter three times and try something else. rinse and repeat until the gears start turning for the thing you actually want to work on.
save these files (i have a little dedicated spot on my drive) so that you don't lose your funky little experimental stuff. you never know what you'll find there later.
10. Tag some people whose works you love/have been your biggest supporters
i adore @serenanymph's wip beast and all the blorbos found within and how much she supports lacuna. @lyssa-ink's wips my beloved. @zmwrites has some incredible wips and an amazing writing style. i love the worldbuilding from @akindofmagictoo's dragonsong and @oh-no-another-idea is one of the biggest sweethearts on this website.
blank questions:
1. What motivates you to write?
2. A line/short snippet of your writing that you are most proud/happy of. If not maybe share a line of someone else's work you love (just please credit them)
3. Which OC makes you smile every time you think/talk about them and what are they like?
4. What process of writing do you enjoy the most?
5. What part of writing do you think you are the best at? (Yes stroke your own ego it's okay)
6. What is something in the writeblr community is most enjoyable?
7. A writing tool/device you use that helps you with writing? (It could be speech to text, a writing program etc)
8. A piece of worldbuilding that you like in your own story? (It could be the magic system, a particular place in the story, a law etc)
9. What piece of advice would you say to encourage others to write if they are having a rough patch?
10. Tag some people whose works you love/have been your biggest supporters
#writeblr community#writeblr#writeblr positivity#tag game#it’s my morbo 🥺🥰#lacuna#anyway this got even longer than i expected but i had fun#oh jack...he technically has a higher body count than keelan#there is a longer version of the maura snippet where she goes a bit feral and keelan thinks 'oh boy hope this doesn't awaken anything in me#rb original#original fiction#maura#keelan#jack
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Review: ‘A God Buys Us Cheeseburgers’, Percy Jackson Episode 5
**Spoiler Alert for the entire book!**
I would like to start this review off on the nature of adaptations and when to go astray, given the less-than-stellar dip in quality of episode 4. Inevitably, details must change from the source material, some things are unfilmable. The source material in question here is in first person, which leaves so much of the story outside the protagonist’s head unwritten.
Had this season been given, say 10 episodes, and worked to establish the side characters we watch fight and die in the name of the gods and their friends later down the line, no one would have complained. Characters I won’t name (but iykyk) that got criminally little ‘screen time’ during Percy’s POV in the later books, only to have incredibly tragic demises were sad enough. Now imagine if, assuming the Disney show can accomplish filming all five books, we got to see these characters grow for all five seasons.
The era of TV we find ourselves in treats filler as universally bad and unacceptable. Plopping down on your couch on a weeknight to watch an off-beat episode of that cop drama you love or that addictive doctor show, or teen romance, that didn’t require your full attention all the time because every scene was important to the plot doesn’t happen anymore. An episode that was funny or charming or a romantic little side quest putting the characters we love in interesting circumstances is now far and few between. It still told the grand story, even if it didn’t service the grand plot. That’s the nature of television.
The filler everyone complains about is when it’s uninteresting, contrived, and very clearly for no other reason than to pad the runtime. Taking a C-list monster and giving her an unnecessary monologue and a need to ‘hunt’ that wasn’t in the book? Boring filler.
Cutting back to camp and really selling us on how Luke is an awesome dude looking out for all the younger kids so he can twist the knife later? Good filler! He’s the main villain of the series (besides you know who) and we got so little of him in the books because it was limited to Percy’s POV. Build his relationships with Chiron, Beckendorf, Silena, Clarisse, the Stolls, and the other demigods he ends up turning Dark Side with him. Make him the lovable everyman because he really did love the kids. He hated how the gods treated them. Die hard book fans, if the writers really went for it and understood why his character does what he does, would have loved it.
Now onto the episode that I was hoping and praying would be more like episode 3 than 4.
So. They included the snipping of the thread. And Percy wasn’t there to see it, nor was it at all as creepy and foreboding as it should have been. I kept waiting for them to flash back to Percy’s experience in the river with the naiad and they didn’t. Maybe they ran out of under-water effects budget. Percy’s “maybe my dad does love me” tonal whiplash is disappointing since 90% of the river scene was lost (and he didn’t even come out of the water dry).
Ares’ casting isn’t what I pictured but it fits really well and I can’t place why. His features don’t really feel *godly*. Him starting Twitter wars is wonderfully petty and absolutely in-character. He just acts like an unhinged jerk, not the God of War, as funny and entertaining as it is.
It is also disappointing that Annabeth is the one that snarks to Ares and not Percy, because his attitude is what eggs on their big fight on the beach while she and Grover actively try to tame Percy’s temper. The episode, to this point, is *fine*.
Everything after… I was laughing at the absurdity. The absolute deadpan confusion on their faces when “What is Love” starts playing like the mixer accidentally edited in a track from their Spotify. The set designers forgetting that “Waterland” is a waterpark, not just an amusement park. Grover being unrecognizably sly and confident in front of Ares when he wasn’t supposed to be there at all. Some of the dry attempts at humor, like Percy’s “I think I heard this at an orthodontist” line, not in itself funny, but his dry delivery was.
Grover’s ongoing conversation trying to probe Ares is hilarious, even if that’s not Grover on screen. It’s not bad, it’s just… not Grover. Percy and Annabeth’s jaunt and awkward exposition and line delivery in the Tunnel of Love is also *fine*. Them hyperfocusing on the Fates’ string this episode is another *interesting* change and so is Percy’s second attempt to sacrifice himself in a scene that’s way more dramatic than it needed to be. Boy is all teary-eyed convinced he’s going to die here in this trap when, in the book, he was trying to get Annabeth to move her behind because she was petrified by robotic spiders. She has her come-to-Jesus moment here, which was sorely needed for this version of her character who, up to this point, had very little depth.
And there are no robot spiders. Did they not have the budget for robot spiders? Is Percy not allowed to have the rest of his powers? Were they too afraid of giving Annabeth a phobia? Did they just desperately need to inject some angst into this scene? All of the angst, to the sound of heartbreaking violins in a score that also went way too hard. Nobody seriously thought Percy was going to bite the dust here, did they?
Overall, this is better than 4, but not as good as 3, if I had to rank them. If you pretend this isn’t supposed to be the first season of at least five, Grover likely doesn’t seem like a problem. His whole arc, across all five books, is gaining self-confidence and courage. He can’t grow into a brave Lord of the Wild if he starts his journey back-talking the God of War.
Annabeth not having her entirely useless panic attack over the spiders and forcing Percy to have to save them was the main takeaway from the original trip to Waterland. She’s not perfect, but this flaw is also entirely outside of her control, it’s in her blood as a child of Athena. It’s ridiculous that someone as smart and strong and cunning as she is can be petrified by spiders – but that’s the point.
The commentary on how the gods, as a family, constantly backstab each other was interesting. Not sure that this episode was the best place for it, but it’s nice that it exists.
The changes that were made were entertainingly confusing. It was not what I ordered, but I didn’t hate what I was served. Ares is easily the best part of this episode, but it is glaringly obvious that this show, whether by budget or the Powers That Be, is allergic to action scenes.
Here’s to hoping they saved all their eggs to drop in the basket of the big climactic beach brawl, because this is still an action-adventure series, not just adventure.
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Questions about Makarov
Did his generals disapprove of his feelings towards Roach because he was American or because he was another man? Like did he ever face any backlash growing up gay in Russia
And curious if he was reincarnated again do you think he’d just make the same mistakes again or could he ever just accept the fact he lost.
(Also want to say how good SITO is and how much I genuinely look forward to each chapter 💜)
Probably a mix of both?
Like I think he definitely faced backlash for his sexuality, but he also never actually explicitly tells anyone his sexuality.
And he never tells anyone that his relationship with Roach is tilting onto romantic. Like obviously everyone knows that those are his feelings about Roach and everyone can tell that he is queer, but Makarov is very careful.
He knows that something like that, if proven to be true, could actually damage his standing and hold over the party, so he is very careful to keep from actually making an explicit move on Roach in front of others.
Again, everyone knows that's what is happening, but there is no proof. Most of what Makarov does could be defended easily by him or kinda chalked up to moves to show is control/power over Roach.
This is also why no one ever explicitly says anything about his relationship with Roach, but rather implies it. Hence Alexei and the Council member referring to Roach as Makarov's "pet" or "dog." They're playing the same game Makarov is, implying without actually saying.
Outside of them, even Petrov doesn't openly say it but will drop things like, "be gentle with him" which imply that he knows about Makarov's true proclivities with Roach. They also certainly hated Roach because he was American as well, but a lot of it and their disproval ties into homophobia.
As for if Makarov was reincarnated again and remembered? He would 100% do the same thing again. At that point, he's too far gone in his desire to "win" and make things right for himself to see that maybe the problem is the ultranationalists/his participation there.
He would certainly be even more unhinged in another life cycle with his memories though. All I have to say is poor poor Bug of that world. He's in for it.
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OC ask!! Cake and chocolate bar!!!!!!
🎂: Has your OC had any contradictory interests or traits to the first perception people have of them? How do they surprise people?
i will go the easy route and answer this with cecil: people automatically assume that he's the way he's prescribed to be like in the prophecy - additionally because of how he looks - a.k.a to be terrifying, to have no sense of morale, to be unhinged, anger issues, easy to set off. cold, heartless and will hurt you without a reason.
what they do find out though is that he's actually very quiet and softly spoken? LOL he's very reserved and rather doesn't talk much. but he's very kind and will try to help if anything is brought up. he will also listen more than talk
🍫: Where does your OC go to think?
for this i will take jeanette. she doesn't have many places but usually when she needs to process anything she will spend most of her time brainstorming on her couch in the living room. putting on some music, eating a chocolate snack and journaling. maybe call a friend, and drink some wine. if we're talking outside, her favourite place to rewind is at the shore next to the bridge a few minutes from her apartment block. she will wear something comfy and watch the ducks, maybe bring a friend with her
besides these two things... she will also crash at zachariah's. he's her emergency number and if calling or texting won't help she will visit and spend hours there ranting about her lil problems
hope this make sense. thank you for the questions bb!!
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fully admitting that my roommate Just Sucks and is just kind of a shitty person after doing mad apologetics for them for like ~8mo really sucks lolle
when i moved in here i was really hype to be living in the gayborhood and moving in with another queer person but. i don't know how to be nice about this--
my roommate is one of those white nbs who have like, reckoned with their own gender feelings at least somewhat-- enough to examine their personal relationship to gender, and take some agency over where they're at-- but also have not really changed their life in any way or really spent much time thinking about their political position in relation to other trans people
the "i'm nonbinary, but i'm not trans" crowd, right? right
its difficult to talk about bc i simultaneously really want to open my arms to every person who aspires to something other than what society tells them they have to be, whatever that is, but realizing you are/deciding to be (whatever, who cares, no difference to me) Queer, does not teach you how to be queer.
when i started coming into my identity as a trans man, that personal introspection did not magically give me the ability to understand why other queer people didn't trust me yet. it didn't teach me the visual language for recognizing queer people in the wild, or give me the words to address them respectfully.
so this is how my roommate ends up being really transphobic to me, even though (at least imo, though they might disagree) they're unquestionably included under the trans umbrella.
i've done so much caretaking of the emotions of white nonbinary afabs who project their insecurities onto me and i'm fucking tired. people who think that they can get all the queer education they need by simply introspecting and reading the Identity Wiki until they find something that sticks. you end up with opinions that are based only on your own comfort with no consideration for the context of who you are in relation to the people around you-- queerness ends up contextualized entirely as an internal feeling that comes from nowhere and is totally unmoored from the context of the world we live in.
so you don't think that maybe you are not the first or even tenth person who has told me with a sneer, I want to start T but I'm scared of bottom growth and body hair-- you don't consider that maybe your fucking fear isn't just this super unique individual personal feeling, but is an opinion formed in the landscape that we live in where transsexual bodies are considered disgusting and scary.
you don't think that maybe you aren't the first or even tenth lesbian who has told me that dick is scary and it stops you from dating trans women, because your feminism also begins and ends with your own personal comfort. it doesn't occur to you that considering trans women sexually dangerous because of their bodies is a terf opinion.
we all look at someone like central park karen and see exactly how a white woman's tears can be a weapon, but we don't seem willing to self-criticize in the same way. i can do it-- trans men don't lose the ability to weaponize our tears (or the desire to use that weapon) when we transition, either, and it grosses me out. fear is not contextless or an intrinsic part of the self, and others are not obligated to accommodate fear that comes from bigotry.
it's fucking 2022 and i still have to see posts constantly that act like getting surgery and hrt are a privilege in themselves, that binary trans people are intrinsically more privileged than nonbinary people. i don't know how to explain to people that this is completely unhinged and doesn't track with reality, and believing it tells me that you have not spent any fucking time at all with transsexuals outside of tumblr. it doesn't matter that you don't Literally Hate Trans People if you still end up acting like a transphobe and spreading their bullshit
i'm happy for everyone who finds themselves under the umbrella, i don't question whether my siblings' and cousins' identities are real or "valid" or if they belong here. i think whether you chose to be trans or transness is an inescapable and eternal core of your psyche, you're entitled to that no matter the reason, i'm happy to have you at pride, whatever. but it makes me feel insane that people seem to think we can have a broad umbrella and also claim that there's a strong delineation between Cis and Trans, or that identifying as trans instantly puts you in a different position as the cis person you were yesterday. we still talk about queerness and gender like it's this on/off switch that exists only in your soul, and not a process of practice and evolution and construction that happens over time, in the context of the world around you.
when i point out that white nonbinary afabs frequently do, say, and believe a lot of the same transphobic bullshit white cis women do, its always taken as an attempt to undermine nonbinary identity, when i'm actually begging people to have a little self-awareness for all our sakes. so many times i've seen people complain about "gatekeeping" when it's clear that they have never stopped to consider why experienced queer people might not instantly trust every new little gayby who walks through their door. just this total unwillingness to consider that maybe you are the one who needs an education. maybe you are the one who isn't safe. maybe people don't trust you for reasons that have nothing to do with your identity or who you are as a person, but rather because the world is more fucking dangerous for them than it is for you.
maybe i don't want to hang out with every random freshly-out white afab not bc i think i'm better than them, but because they frequently do the same shit-- they make cruel comments about my body and my gender, they ignore my pronouns, they wrinkle their noses when they see men kissing. they complain about cis peoples' ignorance with zero self-awareness of their own, they complain about mens' egos and lack of emotional awareness while insulting me to my face, they complain about having to do emotion work for men while i'm sitting under a firehose of their feelings about my gender. this has been so consistent that when i meet someone new, our shared queerness is not enough, when so many queers have treated me like this-- and most people that i encounter like this are so obsessed with their own discomfort that they don't consider mine. you have to prove to me first that you aren't going to treat me like that before i'll want to be around you.
idk i'm tired. queer feminism has tired me out. i would like it if the majority of my potential queer social sphere was not dominated by people who think it makes sense to proudly proclaim a queer identity while maintaining a white woman's disdain for anything that instinctively grosses her out. i'm exhausted by the lack of self-awareness re: race and class and how much the world really considers you a freak compared to the rest of the freaks. i'm exhausted by this solipsistic obsession with queerness as a vehicle for boosting your ego and nothing more. in general i'm tired of how much online trans discourse has been dominated by people who have been trans for five minutes and are extremely raw and defensive and have no fucking clue what it's like to be trans when you're ten or twenty years in.
i was a trans dude who grew up in 2014 tumblr and got told constantly that self-sacrifice and self-criticism were my moral prerogative. i think it was unfair that i was saddled with that responsibility when so many other people are not. it hurt to learn those lessons when i was y'know, 21 and super vulnerable, but i did my best and i think i'm better for it-- i'm expected to understand and not take it personally when other people see my gender and don't trust me, but nobody seems to think that's a responsibility that they also share. i don't think it'd kill anybody else to also try their hand at it, too.
it sucks to keep running into other trans people who are like, really weird and transphobic at me in the same ways everywhere i go. if we're supposed to be sharing the umbrella, then maybe you could try fucking acting like it sometime??
#disk horse#i GUESS ugh#ive taken so much shit and i think others could stand to take what they dish out
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hi! i've spent quite a lot of time figuring out what my type would be exactly and i've mostly settled on being an INFJ 9w8 5w6 4w5 so/sx. Sometimes I still question if I might be an ISFP instead, and if I might be sx/sp instead or even sp/so or so/sp. I'm pretty sure on my enneagram but sometimes still a bit iffy about 5w6 vs 5w4 and maybe even 2 instead of 4. extremely sure about being a 9 with really strong wings on either side. With all of these considerations taken into account I tend to still settle on the type mentioned, but for some reason it looks so weird to me and I haven't a clue as to why (probably because it would be illegal to be as codependent as the type suggests). I've thought a lot that my tendency to shut down Fe and go into Ni-Ti loop + the strong 1 wing + my withdrawn tritype (in which i relate heavily to type 5) all kind of combat being as unhinged as you'd think i'd be. I was just wondering if you had some comments/suggestions. I tend to be very honest with myself and don't think I'm lying to myself about being a certain type or not - but still just very confused. This might just be my 9/6 energy trying to look outside of myself for some kind of confirmation that my intuition is correct, but still, maybe you have something to say? Thanks for reading this anyways and I hope you're doing well :)
Apologies for the late response, I hope you are well too. Currently, I have been reading more authors such as Naranjo, Ichazo, and Maitri, and their descriptions are super helpful in deciding on Enneagram. Naranjo rambles a bit but a concise description of his take on Enneagram can be found on an Instagram page called: indepth_mbti. I adore this page and highly suggest checking them out. They also have breakdowns of cognitive functions and how to pinpoint one's type on their page.
I see a lot of ISxPs getting mistyped as INxJ, so it could be possible you are mistyped. However, that is for you to decide at the end of the day. 954 tritype would make you an introverted type by default, but from what I've seen ISxJ tend not to be 5+4 fix. 952 is also a pretty introverted type, but I think it is more versatile than 954.
How I determine 2 vs 4 is Pride vs Envy and how it manifests. Like I said earlier, I think indepth_mbti made great posts regarding.
However, I would say that if you are experiencing distress due to mental health, mixing it with typology can possibly make it worse. I say as someone who has obsessed over my type when I was in a horrible unhinged state, and I looked like many different types. Mental health and typology do not correlate, at least not entirely imo. There, of course, would be similarities but deciding or pinpointing your type solely on negative factors does not seem like the best decision. (I could have just made an assumption here bc I am tired atm but I thought I should include it just in case you or anyone else needs to hear it.)
I hope this helps :)
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