#not the excuse-for-racist | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pocketsizedquasar · 4 months

Text

TPOC-Prioritized writings on anti-transmasculinity / transandrophobia

transandrophobia / anti-transmasculinity are both theories that have been spearheaded primarily by trans poc, particularly Black transmascs and transfemmes.

unfortunately, as with Everything created by queer and trans poc, particularly Black queer ppl, white trans ppl (regardless of gender, and regardless of whether they "believe" in this form of oppression or not) have coopted these theories and dominated these conversations, such that both "sides" of the "discourse" are divorced entirely from the racial connotations in which these theories were created, and the ways in which they were created specifically as an intervention against white feminism, and to highlight the ways multiple marginalizations affect the marginalization of masculinity. these are theories that explicitly interact with and can only be understood in conjunction with transmisogyny, as well as other oppressions like racism and misogynoir.

*"anti-transmasculinity" as a term and theory was coined by Black trans folks (some of whom's writings are linked below), and is specifically a theory within the context of Black transfeminism antiBlackness, and transmisogynoir, and cannot be divorced from that context. i try be very intentional about my use of the terms 'anti-transmasculinity' and 'transandrophobia' in different places here, because i do not want to dilute the former’s very particular context.

anyway, here's a list of miscellaneous writings on the subjects, with a priority for collecting writing from trans poc (not all of the authors are tpoc, but this list was intended to prioritize tpoc voices). the intention of this is not to be a be-all end-all on the subject, nor exalt any one of these individuals or pieces as exclusively ~correct~ or whatever, but to combat the whitewashed nature of these discussions online, and raise awareness to the myriad of people speaking on this subject. (nor do i claim to speak for any of them, or claim that any of them speak for me. i tried to make sure i didn't platform blatant racists, zionists, transmisogynists, or other bigots, but i'm not pretending to be 100% accurate about that.)

they aren't in any particular order (except the first one, which i think is an extremely foundational text for anti-transmasculinity theory as delineated by its creators, within the context of antiblackness and transmisogyny, and necessary reading to understand anti-transmasculinity as a theory). I tried to group all the links from the same authors together.

This is a non-exhaustive list! I will likely come back and add more writings as I find them. please feel free to recommend to me any works to include (including your own! especially if you yourself are a Black trans person or a trans POC).

Now with an Archived Read-more Link!

Racial-Class Paternalism and the Trojan Horse of Anti-transmasculinity by Nsámbu Za Suékama. if you read nothing else from this list, read this.

“But even as TME struggles escape the mainstream imagination, they persist, and are often both fueling and being fueled by the war on trans women and transfeminine people. Nothing makes this clearer than in how a Western binary system triangulates that war with Anti-transmasculinity. This is why I say that Anti-transmasculinity is a Trojan horse for Transmisogyny. Like the wooden horse in the Greek myth, it might not seem like what it is, for its actual contents and character are invisible, but at the heart of it, there is a violent campaign going on that is key to how the West aims to lay seige to its civilizational "enemies." And, like the walls of the city of Troy, materialist transfeminism has fortified the opposition to Western domination, in such a way that to overcome the stronghold requires a new strategy for the Man, one that follows up the open and vicious attacks on TMA people with a different, more hidden form of warfare.”

“today’s gender paternalism frames any manhood and masculine embodiment outside of (western) cisheteronormativity as not just biologically illegitimate but also the result of a barbaric threat to civilization. And who typically figures as the face of that barbarism but the Black trans woman? Materialist transfeminism has to theorize Anti-transmasculinity.”

"Non-Men", maGes, and Black Masculinities by genderfugitive / disrupthehuman

One such argument, which is really a collection of arguments but can be consolidated into one, is that trans men are attempting to take a place alongside cis men in the hierarchy of patriarchy. In other words, while they may not have been so before naming themselves as trans men, they are aspiring to be oppressors. This employs a number of rhetorical devices that I have identified before including the idea that trans men are “betraying” cis womanhood and therefore should be seen as threats unless they act as footsoldiers for transmisogyny. The problem with this is that it treats trans manhoods as embodiments that exist as something which merely aspires to be cis manhood.

"For Those Seeking Fight or Flight: Black Trans*feminist Nihilism" / primer on transmisogynoir by genderfugitive / disrupthehuman (not about anti-transmaculinity specifically (though it does come up), but a very good + important read on Black transfeminism & transmisogynoir, so I'm including it)

anti-transmasculinity needs its own theorizing outside of general "transphobia" by genderfugitive / disrupthehuman

anti-transmasculinity & antiblackness inherently linked (& another) both by genderfugitive / disrupthehuman

There is a hidden epidemic of violence against transmasculine people by Orion Rodriguez

a thread master post linking to multiple threads about anti transmasculinity by Salem L. Void / thewarmvoid

a thread on anti-transmasculinity as an epistemic injustice (translated) originally by magicspeedwagon in French; English translation by Salem L. Void / thewarmvoid

Not transmasc invisibility, but erasure by Salem L. Void / thewarmvoid

Girlboy Boygirl Blues - antitransmasculinity as a denial of individual history & more by Salem L. Void / thewarmvoid

"irl we just kiss" - ‘transmasc vs transfem’ discourse & reactionary ‘boys vs girls’ politics in trans spaces by Salem L. Void / thewarmvoid

transmascs & being treated as predatory by Salem L. Void / thewarmvoid

transmasc mental health statistics by Salem L. Void / thewarmvoid

violent anti-transmasculine hate crimes by Salem L. Void / thewarmvoid

thread on examples of systemic anti-transmasculinity by magicspeedwagon

a thread on anti-transmasculinity and its erasure by storyjunkie

anti transmasculinity & transmisogyny and the degendering of Black people by afrodykee

anti transmasculinity & transmisogyny cannot be theorized in opposition to each other by afrodykee

white transfeminism's anti-transmasculinity by afrodykee

Black trans people & erasure of TPOC voices from the trans community by thatspookyagent

transmasculine nonwhite expereince by thatspookyagent

trans men being silenced by thatspookyagent

queer POC being pushed out of conversations by thatspookyagent

cis women's harm to trans men by novascotioducktoller w/ addition about TMOC by thatspookyagent

medical violence in anti transmasculinity by Caleb / sethpuertoluna

example of medical anti transmasculinity by Dominick / transguyenergy

response to inclusion of a trans man in an ad (thread) by Dominick / transguyenergy

anti-transmasculinity around periods by Dominick / transguyenergy

anti-transmasculinity towards pregnant trans men by Dominick / transguyenergy

transitioning as a transmasc of color by gendercriminals

white (cis) women & racist transandrophobia by dead-lavender-society

transandrophobia as an indigenous trans man by petrichorvoices

examples of transandrophobia by transvermin

the “lost lesbian” narrative & antitransmasculinity by vaguefiend

cis women & transandrophobia by vaguefiend

intersectionality & transandrophobia by visible-schizo-spectrum

more transandrophobia from cis women by cock-holliday

tl;dr : there’s LOTS of theory and discussions out there abt anti-transmasculinity, transandrophobia, how these things relate to other forms of transphobia, how it interacts with other marginalizations, most especially race, and the ways in which it affects transmascs. this information is everywhere. it’s out there. y’all (white ppl) are just refusing to engage with it.

#trans #lgbtq #queer #transphobia #transandrophobia #anti transmasculinity #transmisogyny #racism #long post #quasartalks #been compliling this for ages but i think it's finally at a point where i feel comfortable posting it #like i said though it is very much subject to change! i would love to add more things to this #it is extremely shitty that discussions on antitransmasculinity and transandrophobia have been dominated on here by racist yt ppl and their #token trans poc that they so clearly are just using as a shield against when ppl call them out on aforementioned racism.#anyway. dont bother clowning on this post i will just block <3 #so much of this 'discourse' boils down to: transmascs and trans men (esp transmascs of color) saying: 'hey i experience this thing'#and other ppl (esp white ppl!) going 'no you don't.' it's so blatant lmao #it's just the complete denial of our Authority to talk about our own experiences. we are not trusted to be authorities on our own lives.#which. where have i heard that before. smells like racism. smells like misogyny.#also bc ppl can't read: none of this means transmascs have it worse than transfemmes; that transfemmes oppress transmascs; or that these #-experiences ONLY happen to transmascs. those are all extremely bad faith readings of these discussions.#AND ALSO to the (especially white) transmascs who also can't read and take these discussions as excuses to be racist & transmisogynist:#we cannot combat transandrophobia & anti transmasculinity without combating transmisogyny. they are linked.#anyway. good night

145 notes · View notes

mueritos · 16 days

Text

its crazy how coming into clinical social work, i really just thought I was up against systems and cycles of trauma....but it turns out i'm up against those two things AND other therapists. the amount of work spent correcting mistakes from other clinicians--whether with clients or during the classroom--is fucking crazy.

i totally get we're all on different journeys in terms of being clinicians. but it is insane finding out day after day of therapists and clinicians saying the worst things ever to clients. demeaning them, telling them "it's all in their head", the racism and the ableism and harm that is caused. like no fucking wonder people are afraid to seek therapy (on top of the accessibility issues). while i'm a little biased and think that at the very least clinical social work training focuses on viewing people within their environments (so not engaging in the medical/individualist models of practice that a lot of counseling programs focus on), that doesn't mean it gives every person the skills to be an effective therapist. i'm also not saying i'm the best clinician ever--I'm literally in training--but boy! it is jarring seeing how some of my peers interact in class and wondering...is that how you are with your clients??

my social work program at the very least also has a focus on anti-racism, but i know students from other programs and some of them don't even mention racism AT ALL and focus entirely on diagnosing people "correctly", or finding the perfect form of therapy to use on a client. but man, what none of these programs teach are basic life skills. wanting to be a clinician isn't enough, especially considering that an inhumane amount of people in my program are 1. so nervous about making mistakes that they lose scope of their practice 2. have so much internalized racism/white guilt to work thru 3. or they have absolutely no listening skills.

again, im not trying to make it seem like I am the number 1 clinician in the world ever. I don't even have a psych background or bachelor's in social work. my reasons for going into social work are quite selfish (I want a job that is very flexible, easily transferable, and can be done in different contexts), and the helping people part is just a plus. i'm just saying it's very jarring seeing other people in training and realizing they too are working with clients. i have conversation after conversation about these issues with other BIPOC/queer/marginalized clinicians, so I know i'm not the only person worried about some of the people that will be out of this program in a few years practicing on their own or with vulnerable populations.

#muerto talks #just rambling #maybe im just a hater virgo with a strong sense of justice #i am just forever perplexed #learning that some of my classmates believe that you can be racist to white people is crazy #learning that some of my classmates are rude and dismissive to BIPOC students but they work in BIPOC communities #learning that some of my classmates weaponize their mental illnesses as an excuse to act shitty to professors classmates or clients is craz #there are zionists??? trying to be social workers??????#i literally have classes with zionists #some people r doing a whole ass career change because they had a spiritual calling to help people??#again not saying im such a great clinician im in training just like the rest of my program #but you cannot like tell me to even try to be hopeful about some of the people who will be my collegues in a year #because i have no hope for them #and its going to take making serious mistakes for them to maybe snap out of it #and that fucking sucks #nothing in my body feels safe around those people #like idc maybe im an elitist with impossible standards #maybe im the one asking too much from these people.....#the cognitive dissonance is real in these people man

66 notes · View notes

maxellminidisc · 5 months

Text

Just went down a rabbit hole so sickeningly and evil-y white whilst blocking and I genuinely feel sick and murderous

#every single stupid fuck that uses their intrusive thoughts as an excuse to be racist #ows me their head on a fucking spike #and this goes for anyone frankly using intrusive thoughts and ocd as excuses for supporting #ANYTHING morally heinous #you make me fucking sick as a person with ocd and intrusive thoughts

131 notes · View notes

vasito-de-leche · 5 months

Text

;R1999 FORGET ME NOT - General Headcanons

Compilation of headcanons and analysis on Forget Me Not as a character and other related things.

this post was brought to you by me, procrastinating on the second part of the Cover analysis and those yandere Pavia headcanons, and ALSO because mister lawrence cavendish jr is the second target for my brainrot

warning for suicide and self-harm themes!

On the subject of Forget Me Not's name and past.

It's Lawrence Cavendish Jr. Forget Me Not's real name is confirmed to be just that, as seen in this specific excerpt:

"Cavendish Jr, who was still alive and once sat in front of you [...]" which alludes to the dinner Vertin had at the Walden with Druvis III and Forget Me Not, and "'Forget Me Not', what a hilarious, stupid name". I only included this because I've seen people wonder about it.

What I mean to tackle in this point is the relationship between Forget Me Not, his origins and his current chosen name. Despite his calm and collected appearance, it becomes clear that Forget Me Not is one hair away from becoming entirely deranged, especially when confronted with the possibility of getting revenge. But why is Forget Me Not so focused on revenge specifically?

His backstory is not as openly laid out for us to read, but we can gleam some bits and pieces from all the documents and dialogue he has. To understand Forget Me Not, we also need to look at Druvis III.

All throughout chapter 02, we see parallels and connections being drawn between Forget Me Not and Druvis III - both of them appear to be extremely aloof, cold and collected, only to be revealed to be very emotional deep down, for better and for worse. Druvis III is initially defined by the neutrality and inertia that comes with being stuck in the past, while Forget Me Not is initially defined by the neutrality of the Walden and his ties with Manus Vindictae, an organization that rejects the future.

Druvis III is a disgraced, fallen noble whose life wasn't ruined by the fire that took her family, but the perception the world had of her, an image they forced onto her due to their hatred towards arcanists. And Forget Me Not has a family surname "buried in the dust, shot dead in history". A disgraced, fallen noble implied to have struggled with poverty, battling hunger and suicide countless of times. In the "··· Formula: 1920s" document, we can see a few pieces from various people and their opinions on Forget Me Not from the Big Mouth Bulletin. 3 out of 4 want him dead or think of him as a monster - entirely because of his existence as an arcanist.

The similarities are obvious. Hell, both share the theme of flora and plants, too. There is an even more subtle dynamic here too, alluding to the game's prominent religious imagery - Vertin's suitcase being compared to an ark that will brave the "Storm", the last supper moment, Arcana's offering, the orange, being a replacement for the apple of Eden...

And then, Forget Me Not association with snakes, rumoured to have a body covered in scales, with an arcanum skill that allows people to indulge in alcohol during the Prohibition Era - the snake that tempted Adam and Eve. Druvis III is associated with forests, trees, as well as a link between Vertin (the good guys) and Manus Vindictae (the bad guys) - the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. The two go hand in hand and are linked together.

The big difference between them is that their respective quests to set things "right" are entirely different - their "revenge" is not the same. Druvis III was hellbent on finding out who set the fire that killed her family, not because she wanted them to face the consequences, but because in doing so, people would finally leave her alone and let her mourn. She could finally move on from something that she knew the truth of. Forget Me Not does it to feel satisfied with himself and get back at everyone who ever looked down on him or wronged him. To inflict as much as pain unto others as he had received before. It's a powerplay fantasy in which he finally wins, against all odds.

It's unclear what truly happened to the Cavendish that caused Forget Me Not to end up in such conditions, to the point where he'd go as far as make sure no one can trace him back to his family, to the point where not even the Foundation has a proper report on him.

But there is one line in particular that lives rent free in my head when it comes to the Cavendish and Forget Me Not's potential relationship with them.

This takes place after Druvis III loses her forest, after she loses her eternal branch because of Vertin's intervention during their dinner. They're talking about how to use her forest to build a refugee camp.

There's the possibility that Forget Me Not is simply alluding to that forest - something that used to belong to her is now something that he should have for the sake of Manus Vindictae's goals.

But! Indulge me for a second! There's a noticeable pause, there's a subtle tone to his voice. Reverse 1999's writing might be confusing at times due to the translation, but it's easy to see that it's loaded with metaphors, hidden meanings and so much more, to the point where reading deeply into everything most characters' say is pretty much the norm.

The dialogue that precedes that specific line is Forget Me Not insisting that he can transfer the ownership of the woods over to Druvis III anytime, because she has always been and will always be the only owner, no matter what. He does this to convince her to go through with Manus' plans, that's his main goal, he doesn't care about the woods. But that single line pictured above? It could mean so much more.

Again, the two share many, many similarities. So when Forget Me Not talks about what Druvis III once had - a prestigious family business, a name people can recognize, an assured future - is what he should have, it evokes a sense of entitlement and lingering resentment. Almost as if Forget Me Not's desire to go back to the past doesn't stem from nostalgia like her, but to reclaim something that was denied to him.

Which is incredibly ironic to me because both of them carried their family in their names - Druvis THE THIRD. Lawrence Cavendish JUNIOR. And yet, the one that worked so hard to obscure his origins and changed his family name was him.

Neither of these characters can be recognized nor traced back to their families by appearance alone - people need a name or a really good memory to truly recognize them. The only one with enough courage to continue carrying such burden is Druvis III. Forget Me Not wants something that he willingy lost the right to the moment he allowed Lawrence Cavendish Jr. to die and fade into obscurity.

The name "Forget Me Not" begins to sound more ironic. Like an order, a threat or the promise of his return - his desire for revenge and his hypocrisy become clear once you begin to dissect his character. Like the narrator in the "To Lawrence Cavendish" document says: "He is patiently waiting... to put his meanness, craziness and quivers under the sun". He's waiting to reveal himself.

The "stage" is shown when he makes people explode from inside out, a lot of people who recognized him as Forget Me Not, the mixologist. This is when we finally see his true intentions and the main difference between him and Druvis III, all in their respective reactions to the journalists.

She's terrified, thinking about the day of her family's funeral. On the other hand, he's ordering them to watch and record as he "takes everything he has been deprived of".

This is why the thing that breaks Forget Me Not is hearing that Druvis III does not care about the man who started the fire, that it's not important anymore. He believed them to be on the same page, that she would love to torture the single person responsible for all of her grief. The guy is projecting heavily onto Druvis III.

In the end, I don't know if Forget Me Not resents his father, his family name, if he had some sort of business to inherit and a "future" that was taken from him, or if they actually might've been a happy family.

What I do know is that Forget Me Not's desire for revenge was absolutely amplified and fueled by Manus Vindictae's own agenda. And that's why he works perfectly as both a victim of their MO and a willing member within their ranks.

He clings so hard to the past because there is no future worth fighting for, because everything would be much better if it was rebuilt from scratch with only those that won't oppose him and repeat history. He clings so hard that his new name and identity are, in the end, a plea for the world not to forget who he used to be and, at worst, an order because he sure as hell hasn't forgotten all the things others have done or said Back when Lawrence Cavendish Jr was around. Once his family outlived their usefulness or relevance within society.

TLDR: THIS is the cold-blooded, numb murderer who is actually very sad, empty and broken deep inside that some people wanted Pavia to be. Like, he's even sopping wet and sad and asking Vertin to kill him next time they meet.

Which leads us to my next point!

On the subject of Forget Me Not's self-destructive and suicidal mindset.

We've talked about Forget Me Not's views and relationship with the Cavendish - but what exactly is the end goal? He feels entitled to a better life, one he was supposed to have, and then what?

The "???" narrator mentions a woman who made a promise to Forget Me Not, as well as leaving a "sarcoma" behind which he then adapted and turned into his own. This woman is implied to be Arcana, as we see her talk to Vertin about being able to see the truth, to not be blinded - there's an emphasis in the way she recruits people by opening their eyes to reality. The sarcoma is the city (apparently "Windy City" is used to refer to Chicago, I had to google that but hey, that's pretty neat!). It's the world he lives in and that wants him gone. She focused Forget Me Not's grief towards it because in doing so, it would help Manus Vindictae's ideals of a world exclusively for pureblooded arcanists.

And even so, he remained suicidal. There was at least one more attempt at taking his own life, and that's when he saw "what had been on his mind". Whatever that might've been, no doubt influenced by Arcana and his situation, is what pushed Forget Me Not to "allow himself to revenge, revenge, re-re-re-revenge, and to die".

Ultimately, Forget Me Not's goal is to die at the end of it all - even after he gets his revenge, earns the life he wanted, takes back everything that was meant for him. This is why, after he's fully defeated, his last words to Vertin are to show no mercy next time they meet. To kill him.

This is not only a long and convoluted plan of revenge, it's Forget Me Not willingly marching into his own demise. And just like before, he's not strong enough to pull the trigger himself. Now that he has no solid argument to justify his anger - all because Druvis III has shown him that people can, in fact, move on - his only option is to have someone else end his life. He's shown tired, and the phrase "Don't save it no more" might indicate that even if there was someone who could repeat what Arcana did to him - give him a sense of purpose and a target for his grief - he simply doesn't have the energy for that.

Forget Me Not's self-destructive tendencies can also be seen in other ways. His job at The Walden is to cater to all the people who shunned him - he welcomes everyone and anyone for the sake of creating a network of secrets, he attends fancy parties and events full of those who call him a drug dealer, Satan's spawn and so much more. And he pretends to be someone else entirely while wishing for others to remember him. He willingly surrounds himself with all the things that hurt him.

His arcanum being related to alcohol is rather poetic to me - since Forget Me Not is said to have spiraled into decadence and into this extreme mindset, it makes sense that his main skill is related to being intoxicated and to drown into something that is largely hated but at the same time, desired and coveted. The Prohibition Era does have a very similar mentality to religion, namely western ideologies - you're meant to openly reject and loathe something, but the constant repression causes you to yearn for it instead. And at some point, this repression can become an addiction in itself, leading some to indulge in it. This loops back to Forget Me Not's association with the snake in the Garden of Eden.

It makes sense to me that he indulges in something so painful, while cohercing others into indulging in forbidden alcohol. That he later uses this very same arcane skill to kill all those people who, in his eyes, represent everything he loathes about the current state of the world. It's like a sarcoma that he now leaves behind, that kills from inside out.

And this is the last time I'll bring up Druvis III in a Forget Me Not post, but notice their choice of flower/plant? She has a mistletoe bouquet - a parasitic and toxic plant which represents positive things such as fertility, life and protection in many different cultures. Forget Me Not has black roses, roses being immediately recognized as one of the most beautiful flowers but, in this context, symbolizing things such as death and rebirth, remembrance, mourning. Their duality, contrast and the "two-faced" aspect is prominent there. And not to get very deep about character design, but Druvis III holds the bouquet very carefully and carries it around with her willingly, whereas the black roses that Forget Me Not wears wrap around his neck not unlike a noose.

To really drive home how Forget Me Not sees himself, here's the description they gave him for his boss fight.

They boil down his character perfectly, to all the little traits that make up his whole emotional baggage.

And to also put more emphasis on how Forget Me Not truly doesn't expect to live and "win" at the end of this whole revenge trip, here's his ultimate - "Heavengazing from Hell". He's fully aware that he's going to be destroyed by his own actions and that the only thing left for him will be to look up at heaven from hell. That all the good things will forever be out of his reach.

Now, onto proper headcanon territory, since I'm running out of media to analyze!

On the subject of Forget Me Not's scales.

As established before, Forget Me Not is associated with snakes - one of the segments from the Big Mouth Bulletin comments on this. "[...] he had scales under those long sleeves, one next to another embedded in his flesh."

And this can actually be seen on his in-game sprite! It's very faint, but there's absolutely some sort of texture peeking out from under his collar and sleeves that resemble scales. They can also be seen on the trailer animations. The only time these scales don't appear or peek out from his clothes are in The Walden illustration, with the other members of Manus Vindictae, but that can easily be explained as him covering up properly and the angle he's drawn in.

Originally I thought that they could be burn scars, as it would mean a stronger connection between him and Druvis III. But upon closer inspection, they don't look like burn scars at all.

I like to headcanon that it's a side-effect from his own arcanum, similar to how Rabies is implied to look like a scarecrow because of his involvement treating rabies. Being something "self-inflicted" - in the sense of him having the choice to stop and heal, but refuses to - also lines up with Forget Me Not's suicidal tendencies, the whole sarcoma metaphor and the fact that by carrying on like this, he's doing nothing but destroy himself and add to his suffering.

As for how far the scales have extended, I don't have a set favorite idea! Part of me really would love it if the scales coiled around his body like actual snakes, but also the idea of him having different patches of scales scattered throughout (again, like a sarcoma) and the third secret option of him being MOSTLY covered in them to the point where it becomes grotesque, something that he can't even look at.

They're not just a tattoo or pattern embedded onto his skin either - they're actual scales, cold and rough to the touch. The areas affected by this have grown numb, making it hard for Forget Me Not to feel any warmth or pressure applied onto them. This adds to that otherworldly and sinister vibe he's got going on, even if the lack of proper tactile sense irritates him. It's extremely uncomfortable if they're brushed or rubbed in the wrong direction, however!

Sometimes, Forget Me Not might pick at the scales, as if deciding whether he loves or hates them. In particularly bad days, he picks them out. I like the idea that, once picked, the scales grow faster and stronger, as well as in broader areas, making it a perpetual loop of picking them off from his skin.

Overall, it would be extremely easy to conceal them - he only needs a shirt with a higher collar and gloves or some make-up, but I like to think that Forget Me Not loves the idea of someone catching a glimpse of them, a reminder that he's dangerous and so much more than meets the eye.

As much as he he's been affected by the stigma against arcanists, he now thrives in their hatred for him and his existence - sneaking into places he knows he's not welcome is addictive, especially knowing everyone tolerates him because he's their only access to alcohol. The way everyone will turn around and talk shit about him once they're out of The Walden is fun, because it reinforces his views on why this current era deserves to be rebuilt from the ground up.

Forget Me Not has extremely poor eyesight.

I know the glasses look thin and pretty standard, but I just like to think that Forget Me Not can't see shit without them.

He has this habit of taking them off to "clean" them whenever he's talking with those he loathes - mostly humans - just so he doesn't have to look at them directly. Sometimes, he might just close his eyes and dissociate, pretending to pay attention if the situation calls for it. Yes, he's petty and hateful enough to feel physically sick when talking to people he hates.

If you pay enough attention, it becomes clear that eye contact becomes scarce, as if just looking at them will send him into a fit of rage (but he conceals it extremely well when needed).

Forget Me Not's poor eyesight is not a secret, and he often likes to make patrons nervous by making their drinks without his glasses - of course, he knows his way around drinks and potions, there's no chance of him messing up, he could do this with his eyes closed. But seeing customers squirm is such a delight. Because now, they must choose between making a scene in HIS territory or risk being poisoned with a poorly-made drink.

I like to think that he also just has a very fine ear, since he does play instruments (all of his attacks being related to music and him using a piano as his wand during the boss fight). So really, Forget Me Not couldn't care less about his eyesight.

Forget Me Not enjoys floral arrangement.

This is just based on his association with the actual forget me not flower. I think he enjoys creating bouquets or putting up vases full of flowers around his home, even if all of them may end up creating a very gloomy and decadent atmospere - they're perfect for funerals, and he simply may be preparing for his own.

And he leaves them out on display long after they've wilted. "They're more beautiful this way", he'd say.

It's not rare to find Forget Me Not on rainy afternoons with a pair of scissors on hand, absentmindedly cutting every leaf and petal off from all these roses, as if he had a personal vendetta against their colorful hues. Sometimes, he just twirls the stem around, pressing hard on the thorns to feel anything while he looks out the window. He's so very fucking dramatic and volatile.

Basically, I like to picture Forget Me Not as the type of person who has dedicated so much time into something as empty as revenge, that he absolutely has no idea what to do outside of that.

Everything he does is just a way to pass the time until he can go back to dedicate every waking second of his life into his and Manus Vindictae's plans, every "little pleasure" is just a façade, he doesn't get any real enjoyment from anything. Sometime he worries that revenge won't help him climb out of this apathetic life he's built for himself, but he can't afford to dwell too much on that possibility. Everything that he does is muscle memory, he's forcing himself to try and do it, because otherwise he could simply sit still in an empty room for hours on end, with the lights turned off, waiting and waiting - all alone with his thoughts.

#reverse 1999 #reverse: 1999 #r1999 #r1999 headcanons #reverse 1999 forget me not #forget me not #playable forget me not WHEN bluepoch i NEED him #i like forget me not when hes like. deranged #when hes one hair away from hurting others or hurting himself because hes. in the most horrible mindset ever #like hes just looking for an excuse to blow up or blow up others (hehehehehe....get it....)#like sure hes so cool with the walden and his network of information and secrets #but hes still a cowardly snake who hides and needs to be revealed. bc he cant reveal himself willingly and openly on his own #its the loss of humanity again but whereas pavia rejects it. FMN just lives within it. he just masks SO well #'but you cant simp for any manus vindictae character! theyre explicitly racists!' and re1999 is a game that CHOSE to replace #actual racial issues in history with their magic ppl vs normal ppl plot line with many many parallels to struggles poc like me lived throug #and then chose to be like 'hey theyre actually physically different and its xenophobia on a whole different species hahaaa bye'#so like. fuckin chew on that first before coming for me. if we're already suspending our belief for the sake of playing:dont cherry pick #tackle the WHOLE thing the game chose to portray. not just a single group within the whole game #sorry if that was heated but lmfao i saw ppl already trying to dictate who ppl can and cannot simp for on twitter #as if this wasnt another fictional anime gacha game at the end of the day

76 notes · View notes

quantumshade · 19 days

Text

do you ever think about how there is an insane amount of antisemitism in doctor who but no one ever talks about it. do you ever think about how goyim on this website make a habit of sexualizing and fetishizing these insanely antisemitic scenes. because i do. i think about it a lot but i feel like i can't talk about it because it makes the gentiles uncomfortable lol

#i'll never forget that one post that was like.#''chibnall is my favorite showrunner because he never did anything racist. except the master nazi scene but that wasn't that bad''#which. a. saying he didn't do anything racist is like. insanely untrue. there's a list a mile long of racist shit he did. b. NOT THAT BAD??#why is antisemitism in dr who excusable. why is it ignorable. why is it Less Bad than the other bigoted stuff.#whatever #doctor who #delia.txt

48 notes · View notes

vilethot · 11 months

Text

Oh bitch it is OVER for you whites ESPECIALLY you annoying ass “she needs to be saved” swifties

#INSANITYY #like full stop this man is just racist like no excuses no ‘oh well he didn’t mean it like that’#that ice spice feature don’t mean SHIT now lmaooo

190 notes · View notes

satyrradio · 11 days

Text

Haha, what? I did/said something horribly racist? Erm.. you know I'm literally queer right? I'm literally trans? And gay? And polyamourous? Yeah, sorry, looks like *you're* actually the bad guy here. Maybe should've thought about that before calling out my horrific racism ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

#squawking #watch this post get me a callout for being a horrible queerphobe #i cannot count the amount of times i've seen white queer people be horrifically racist and excuse it with “erm im LITERALLY trans”#like. okay.#racism #anti blackness

30 notes · View notes

ahaura · 3 months

Text

btw you're a racist piece of shit loser for interrogating palestinians on ~how~ or ~what~ they're "doing for palestine". they are palestinian. their loved ones and people are being subject to genocide in real time. and you'll use any excuse any cover any liberal guise to attack and harass the people suffering most because it's easier to harass the people (rightfully and justifiably) criticizing those who stay silent or hypocrites or those who pick and choose w their advocacy or use "advocacy" as a shield for denying genocide or victim blaming than doing anything remotely meaningful. u would rather attack people who ~hurt your feelings~ (never once examining why something a palestinian says might strike a cord within you or why you feel called out, never once thinking that you need to un-learn and reassess the things uve learned from propaganda or growing up in a society founded on colonialism, etc etc etc) and pretend its holding someone "accountable" rather than doing that for urself or people in ur life or ppl u look up to. you are so self-centered that u cannot stop urself from inboxing palestinians and telling them how they *should* conduct themselves rather than stepping back for a moment and thinking before you speak.

you are not "holding anyone accountable", you are not doing anything worthwhile, you are harassing people being subject to genocide. there is nothing that sets u apart from the most vile racist u think u are better than in ur own life. & it should make you uncomfortable and you should feel bad if you realize that you've been silent or complicit or wrong but that isn't palestinians' problem that is your problem and you deal with that by listening to palestinians, not staying silent, learning and educating others, etc.

#liberals will resort to racism and dehumanization under the guise of 'progressivism' or 'civility' but in reality #they are just as callous and racist and shitty as their counterparts like theres no excuse for harassing palestinians #or denying genocide or excusing apartheid and ethnic cleansing. like jesus christ.

34 notes · View notes

astrobei · 1 year

Note

bandaging/stitching up an injury with stonathan PLEASE i need more of them

The first thing Jonathan does when he sees him is let out a long, slow whistle.

“Jesus,” he mutters, crossing the living room in three quick steps. “What’s wrong with your face?”

“Got beat up by a racist piece of shit,” Steve mutters, leaning back against the sofa cushions and holding a bag of frozen peas to his face. Ow. “But don’t tell anyone. It can’t be good for my street cred.”

Steve’s got his eyes mostly closed, still, but he sees Jonathan’s face do a funny twitching thing, like he was about to laugh. “What street cred,” Jonathan says, and he doesn’t laugh, exactly, but Steve hears one in his voice anyway. “Your street cred died out a long time ago.”

“Yeah, okay, very funny. Chuff it up, Byers,” Steve grumbles, adjusting the bag of peas and trying to find another cold spot. It’s mostly room temperature now, sloshing around wetly with each movement, which is more disgusting than anything else. Steve lets out a frustrated noise. “Great. And now my peas are warm.”

“I’ll get you another bag,” Jonathan says, because right, this is his house, and Steve is getting blood all over his couch like the world’s actual worst houseguest. If his parents saw his appalling lack of manners, there would be some words to be said.

Well maybe about the bloody face first. And then the manners.

Maybe.

Jonathan opens the freezer door and stops dead in his tracks. “Steve?”

“Mm?”

“Why is there a– Jesus, I don’t even know what this is, and I’m a little afraid to ask– why is there a thing in my fridge?”

Ah. Right.

“Listen,” Steve starts apologetically. “Henderson was just shooting me these giant puppy eyes and going on and on about scientific discovery or some shit and honestly I didn’t really want to have to deal with taking it outside. Like, what do you even do with the bodies? Burn ‘em? Bury ‘em? Ritual sacrifice?”

Jonathan peers at him over the refrigerator door, and blinks. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Ritual sacrifice,” Steve says again, waving a noncommittal hand in the air. “You know. You’re always listening to those broody, scary guys with the weird hair and the– uh, the guitars. You know.”

“I think you’re concussed,” Jonathan says simply, pulling a face as he presumably reaches around the Demodog’s body for the peas. “Did you hit your head?”

“I hit a lot of things,” Steve laughs, which is maybe answering Jonathan’s question.

“You ruined the good quilt,” Jonathan frowns, letting the door fall shut. “You owe me a new one.”

Steve extends his arm as Jonathan walks back, pressing the new bag to his face with a relieved sigh as he says, “Sure, yeah, come over to mine and take your pick. My aunt just took up quilting actually.”

Jonathan peers down at him. He’s still standing up, hovering, somehow managing to look uncomfortable in the middle of his own living room. “Did she really?”

“No idea,” Steve admits. “Haven’t heard from her since last December. I think she got cancer and died.”

“Steve,” Jonathan laughs, a little shocked, “that’s morbid,” and, okay, maybe Steve is a little concussed after all.

“Whatever,” he says, then pats the sofa next to him. “Sit down, man, it’s your house.”

Jonathan sits. Steve tilts his head back, presses the peas to the bruise he knows is blossoming a dark and vibrant purple around his eye. Jonathan’s watching him, silently observant like he always is. It should be unsettling. It used to be unsettling, back before Steve exchanged a proper, actual sentence with him. Now it’s kind of comforting, knowing that he doesn’t need to fill up the silence with meaningless blabbering.

Doesn’t mean he won’t do it anyway.

“You look like shit,” he blurts out, eyeing the way Jonathan’s shirt has gone all streaked with dirt and is still a little patchy with sweat. His hair is sticking to his forehead, and he looks like he’s been up for three days straight, but he still seems more awake than Steve is feeling. Alert. The usual slouchiness to his posture is gone, replaced by something less, uh, tortured. A little calmer, maybe. “How much do you sweat?”

“Well, we had to sweat the Mind Flayer out of Will,” Jonathan says casually, like he’s recounting a Saturday afternoon out on the town. “And we cranked the heat up to, like, a hundred thirty or something so yeah, I’m a little sweaty.”

Steve stares. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“So he’s– he’s okay then? Where is he?”

Jonathan plucks at a stray thread sticking out of the couch. It’s old upholstery, and Steve can see a smattering of old, faded stains across the cushions, but it’s soft and worn and comfortable, and nothing like the ones in Steve’s own living room. “Well, Owens is hurt so he had to call someone in and it’s a whole mess that basically means the fewer people the better for tonight.”

Steve isn't really sure who Owens is, and he can't really discern from Jonathan’s tone whether or not he’s supposed to be happy about this guy being unexpectedly incapacitated. “Ah,” he says anyway. “Is he okay?”

“Yes?” Jonathan offers. Steve watches him out of the corner of his eye. He fiddles with his thumbs. Steve wants to reach out and grab his hands, just to still them, calm him down. “I can go first thing in the morning, it’s just– Hopper has some pull and my mom is– well, she’s our mom, and– I don’t know, okay, I just look at him and I see this thing that had its hands around my mom’s throat and I think to myself, hey, that’s my little brother. You know?”

Steve feels a little blown away. A little– flabbergasted, maybe. He’s not sure he’s heard Jonathan Byers say this much at one time in his entire life, and as it is, he stops talking suddenly, biting down on his lower lip like he had more to say but just isn’t.

“Yeah,” Steve croaks, even though he doesn’t know. He’s an only child and he’s spent most of his childhood alone and he guesses he has the Henderson kid now, but that’s not the same. Jonathan and Will– they’re something else. He isn’t really sure what to say other than that, so he just reaches out, places a hand on Jonathan’s knee, and squeezes. Like maybe this can say something he can’t. “I’m sorry. He’ll be okay. He’s a tough kid.”

Jonathan looks down at Steve’s hand on his knee and then back up, meeting his gaze. Something flits across his face, lightning fast and then it’s gone. “Thanks,” he says, a little quieter than before.

Steve wonders if maybe he should move his hand, but Jonathan doesn’t seem to be all that bothered by it and Steve thinks, privately, that he likes the steady weight of him under his palm. Heavy and solid. Strangely anchoring. Maybe it’s the possible concussion talking. Maybe it’s not.

“Yeah,” Steve whispers.

A moment passes like this. The house is quiet. Everyone else has gone home, to the hospital, wherever they have to go, and Steve is here because he’d taken Dustin home and then thought about his own house– dark and empty and wholly more terrifying than any of the monsters or the blood or the douchebag assholes in open-front shirts and mullets– and he’d ended up here.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Jonathan says after a second. “You’ve got– it’s a lot of dried blood.”

“Sorry about the couch,” Steve says pathetically, as if he hadn’t been getting his messed up face all over it for the last thirty minutes. “You can get the blood out of it, I think.”

Jonathan is digging something out from under the sink– a first aid kit that looks like it’s been sitting there since the first World War. “Believe me,” he says. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Steve lifts the bag of peas off his face. This one’s starting to go warm too, and he blinks blearily in the living room light as he peels his particularly sore eye open. “Be honest with me, Byers,” he calls out after Jonathan as he ducks into the bathroom, then pops back out a second later with a clean washcloth in hand. “How many murders have you committed in this house?”

Jonathan laughs at that, sudden and sharp, and then he makes a face like he’s surprised with himself for doing it. It’s unexpected, the sound, and it’s even more unexpected the way something swoops low in Steve’s chest. Like it’s some kind of victory, making Jonathan want to laugh so badly that he surprised himself by doing it, like he really just couldn’t help himself. “Zero,” he says, making his way back to the sofa. “So far. Here– come here.”

Steve isn’t really sure where here is, because then Jonathan is sitting down next to him and their knees are touching and there’s not really anywhere he can go that isn’t already as close as he can physically get to him. So he just leans his head in a little, turns his face up towards the light. “Good?”

“Shit.” Jonathan makes a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat. He cups a hand around Steve’s jaw, tilting his face a little to the right. “He got you good, huh?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Steve mutters, and Jonathan lets out another one of those sudden, quick laughs. Steve bites back a smile. Good, he thinks, a little absently. Good.

“I see what you mean about the street cred,” Jonathan murmurs. “Nice bandaids, by the way.”

“Courtesy of your brother’s idiot friends,” Steve sighs, and then winces as the cloth makes contact with a cut on his cheek. “Shit. Ow.”

“It’s a little one,” Jonathan smirks. “How is it that you can’t deal with a little–”

“It’s the fucking rings,” Steve bemoans, this time focusing very hard on keeping his face neutral as Jonathan dabs the dried blood away. “What kind of asshole wears that many rings on one hand?”

“The kind of asshole that goes around punching people?” Jonathan offers, and Steve rolls his eyes.

“Very funny.”

“I don’t know,” Jonathan continues, ducking his head down and finding a clean spot on the towel. There’s a smile playing on his lips, even if he thinks Steve can’t see him. “I’m pretty sure I remember doing some damage even without any rings on.”

“Congratulations,” Steve says drily, “you’re better than the guy who rubs himself down with body oil before leaving the house.”

Jonathan laughs at this, a real, loud laugh, and Steve thinks, for a fleeting second, that he might like this laugh even better than the other one. “I should hope so,” Jonathan is saying, and then he’s leaning in again and dabbing at Steve’s forehead. “That doesn’t seem like a very high bar.”

“You should do that more,” Steve murmurs, watching Jonathan’s mouth twitch in concentration.

Jonathan frowns, then glances down, meeting Steve’s gaze. “Do what?”

“Laugh,” Steve says, the single syllable halfway out of his mouth before he has any inclination to, oh, I don’t know, maybe not say that? He’s thinking about the way Jonathan had lit up for a moment there, the way the weariness he always seems to carry around him sloughed off his shoulders, even if for just a second. What comes out of his mouth though, instead of any halfway eloquent manner of saying this, is, “It makes your face look nice.”

Maybe he is concussed. In a very real, serious way, maybe Steve Harrington is currently suffering from a grade-A concussion.

Jonathan looks a little bit horrified, but mostly kind of confused. He shakes his head. “It makes my– okay, you definitely have a concussion,” he says at last, which, yeah, Steve had been coming to this conclusion himself, actually. “So try not to get any major brain damage before we can get you checked out, yeah?”

“I’m trying,” Steve says, and then, “ow, dude, you can be a little more gentle, you know.”

“Sorry,” and Jonathan does sound a bit apologetic as he says this. He’s got one hand still cupped under Steve’s chin, fingers resting lightly against his jaw.

Steady hands, Steve thinks, closing his eyes as Jonathan wipes over them. Steady hands. A more gentle touch than he would have expected from someone so rough-looking. All broad shoulders and frown lines and a piercing kind of stare. “It’s just not coming off too easy.”

“Yeah, it’s dried down,” Steve says, “it’s been a few hours.”

Jonathan hums in acknowledgement and turns Steve’s face towards the light some more. “You should have cleaned it up before,” he says softly. “Your face is all swollen.”

“I told him not to hit the moneymaker,” Steve says in a deadpan. “He didn’t listen.”

Jonathan shoots him an exasperated glare, then hands him the squishy bag of peas again as he digs around in his ancient first aid kit. “Ice.”

“No, those are peas,” Steve says without thinking, and then Jonathan groans and drops his head into both hands.

“When my mom gets back with the car, you’re going to the hospital.”

“I’m fine,” Steve grins, placing the peas back over his eyes. “Seriously. My dad always said I had a thick skull.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” Jonathan says. He pulls out a tube of ointment, something thick and pasty, and beckons Steve forward again. “Come here.”

The ointment smells about as bad as it looks, and Steve pulls a face. “Dude,” he crinkles up his nose, “what the hell is that?”

“It’s gross but it works,” Jonathan says, frowning in concentration. He smears a thin layer of it over the cut on Steve’s forehead, all cleaned up now that the blood’s washed away. “Trust me.”

“Trust–”

The tube is almost empty. Steve swallows lightly and looks away.

It feels like he’s intruding on something, having Jonathan be so close to him. Being close enough to see the little spots where he’d nicked himself shaving, or how his hair is streaked through with a little blonde, the kind you can’t tell apart from ordinary brown until you’re really, really up close and personal. Which Steve– totally is. Oh, okay.

Steve swallows again, and closes his eyes.

“One down,” Jonathan murmurs, making his way over to a cut on Steve’s temple, “ninety nine to go.”

“He didn’t land that many hits,” Steve whispers, eyes still squeezed tightly shut. “Give me some credit.”

“Mike says you got him really good once,” Jonathan says, “so maybe there’s hope for you after all.”

It sounds like he’s smiling a little. Steve is tempted– so tempted– to open his eyes, just to see that.

He doesn’t.

“You just got lucky, Byers,” he says instead. “You caught me off guard.”

“And then I caught you off guard again. And again, and again,” Jonathan says, and he’s definitely smiling now. “Two down.”

Steve lets out a long, slow exhale. “At this rate, I’ll have graduated by the time you’re done.”

“You should be thanking me,” Jonathan huffs, but it doesn’t sound malicious at all. He strokes a thumb over Steve’s cheekbone, and Steve fights back a shiver.

“Thank you,” he says, as genuinely as he can muster, then opens his eyes. Jonathan is staring straight at him, eyes a little wide, cheeks a little red. Steve grabs his wrist, the one that’s right up by his face, and says, “That’s– I’m being serious, by the way. I’m not trying to fuck with you.”

“Sure,” Jonathan gets out. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry I made you hit me,” Steve goes on, and if he has a concussion after all, he can blame whatever he’s saying on that. And he must be, because it’s getting hard to think in a straight line, and every train of thought just keeps circling back around to this. Warm fingertips moving over his face. So gently, like Steve is– like he’s something delicate. Something to be handled with care.

“I– it’s okay.”

Jonathan doesn’t blink. It should be more unnerving than it is. He’s got pretty eyes, Steve thinks, from a little bit out of his body. They’ve got some green in them. A little gold, too.

“I was an ass,” Steve says, and Jonathan’s eyes dart between his. Trying to see, maybe, if Steve is trying to fuck with him. If there’s a punchline at the end of this, somewhere, and whether or not that punchline is him.

Whatever he’s searching for, he must not find it, because he sighs and says, “I know.”

“You–! Okay,” Steve mutters. “Low blow, but I guess I’m the one apologizing here, so I should be able to take it and not expect a–”

“I’m not mad,” Jonathan interrupts, and then moves down to Steve’s jaw. He hadn’t even known he got hurt there, but because he’s him, of course he did. “That’s five.”

Steve blinks. “You’re not?”

“We’re different people now.” Jonathan shrugs, dips a finger through the ointment and smears it across the skin there. The smell of something strong and medicinal hits Steve head-on, and he wrinkles up his nose. “You, me. You’re not a total piece of work, and I’m not a–”

“Brooding loser,” Steve cuts in, and Jonathan gives him a look.

“I was going to say guy whose brother went missing,” Jonathan says, and then he rubs the pad of his finger over a particularly tender spot– a deep part of the cut underlaid with a bruise Steve doesn’t even have to see to know is there– and Steve lets out a startled hiss of pain.

“Ah–”

“Sorry!” And he really does sound sorry, and Steve figures they’d just been having a nice little talk so it wasn’t, like, mean or an act of petty revenge or anything. “Shit, yeah, let’s get you a bandaid for that one.”

“No Star Wars?” Steve jokes, as Jonathan comes up with– thank god– a plain beige one.

Jonathan squints at him, peeling the paper backing off. “Have you ever seen Star Wars?”

“Not once,” Steve admits. “No one I know is into that sort of thing.”

“You know me,” Jonathan says easily, running a finger over the bandaid and then pausing. “I mean–”

“Whoa,” Steve laughs. He tries to go for casual, for good-natured, but it comes out a little too overeager, stilted. “Are you asking me out, Byers?”

Jonathan blanches. “I– no.”

Belatedly, Steve realizes that this joke might have been marginally more funny if it came from anyone but him. “I didn’t mean–”

“I know what you meant.” Jonathan traces his thumb over to the last cut, sideways across Steve’s upper lip. “And you didn’t mean it like that.”

Steve shifts uncomfortably. “Hey, man, look–”

“You can probably deal with this last one on your own,” Jonathan says, but doesn’t move his hand away. “Your lip is busted, but it’s not too bad.”

“Okay,” Steve whispers. He doesn’t move either. “Thanks for patching me up.”

“Thanks for being there today,” Jonathan says back. “I saw you with the kids. You’re good with them.”

Steve huffs out a small laugh, and it gets caught there, somewhere along the line between Jonathan’s thumb and wrist, still snagged onto the curve of his upper lip. “Oh that? It was nothing.”

Jonathan shakes his head. It’s minute, barely noticeable. “They look up to you. Dustin, especially. It’s sweet.”

“Yeah, well, someone had to step up. Not everyone can have a–”

Jonathan raises his eyebrows. “A what?”

You, Steve thinks, heart picking up pace suddenly. Not everyone can have you.

“They can’t all have–”

The word you never makes it out of his mouth, because then Jonathan is kissing him.

Steve gasps, because he has an open fucking wound on his lip and this is probably a thousand different kinds of unhygienic and an excellent way to spread another thousand different kinds of germs. And then Jonathan’s hands cup either side of his face and he’s pressing in so hard that it can’t be fueled by anything other than instinct and desperation, and then all thoughts regarding germs and sanitation and wow I’m glad he washed his hands before getting all up in my busted face fly right out of Steve’s head.

He’s warm, is the first thing Steve notices. The second and third are, in order, that he’s very broad and he’s very solid. It’s nothing like kissing a girl. There’s no give to him, no softness to the rigid muscles of his arms that Steve had no idea even existed. He’s gripping onto Jonathan’s forearms, apparently, which he doesn’t remember doing but he can’t find the state of mind to do literally anything else.

Jonathan’s arms are solid and rough and the muscles flex gently under Steve’s palms. He’s so solid, anchoring, and he’s holding Steve’s face like that again– like Steve is a delicate thing. Something that needs to be handled with a ginger touch, with appreciation, with trace amounts of tenderness.

Jonathan’s lips press into his once, then twice, like he just couldn’t help himself, and Steve makes what is maybe the most embarrassing noise he’s made in his life to date. This is good, he thinks. And he knows good. He’s Steve Harrington, okay, he basically invented it. But where the hell did Jonathan Byers learn how to kiss?

“Okay,” Steve hears himself say the second Jonathan pulls back. “What was–”

“Don’t freak out,” Jonathan says, sounding like he’s on the verge of freaking out himself. “Please don’t freak out. I need you to not freak out.”

“Who, me?” If Steve’s voice cracks, just a little, neither of them say anything. “I would never. Never ever ever ever– um. So why did you– not that I’m– yeah.”

“Like I said,” Jonathan says, “we’re different people now,” and he looks nowhere near as totally and completely thrown for a loop as Steve feels at the moment. His ears are bright red, though, and there’s a light dusting of pink across the tops of his cheekbones, and it feels like another victory, getting Jonathan Byers to blush.

“Cool,” Steve says faintly. His lip is throbbing, and he brings a hand up to his mouth and pulls it away to see red on his fingers. “Ah, great,” he winces. “Look what you did, man. You fucked my lip up again.”

#stonathan/stoncy were my first st ship back in 2016 so they are sooooo special to me oh my god #forever fuming about the enemies to lovers potential here wasted #the setup in s1/2 was so good just to have them not talk for like 2 full seasons #ugh #and i'll never understand ppl who shipped steve w b*lly when jonathan was RIGHT THERE and NOT RACIST #jfc ugh thank u for giving me the excuse to write this nic i need more of them in my life #plus this trope w them is >>>>>>>#stonathan #steve harrington #jonathan byers #fun sized fics #fic

340 notes · View notes