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madamtrashbat · 3 years

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Some thoughts on proship and antiship

This is a behemoth. Grab some popcorn.

I’ve found out recently that there’s a weird internet war going on between people labeling themselves proshippers and antishippers and it’s a weird sort of thing to witness because I think I’m officially a fandom old because this shit is insane to me, especially coming up in a world where tags were only to tell you what ship you were going to see and any smut was only warned for with “lemons!!!!” which, like, wooh. We’ve come a long way.

If you’ve paid any attention to my posts in the last couple of weeks (and I hope you do because my vanity demands it) you’ll know that I’ve plonked myself in the proship side of things, if only because this is the way fandom has always been to my experience and anything outside of this is bizarre and foreign and I don’t want it. The puritanical way that antishippers comport themselves is strange, to say the least. I saw Goody Proctor writing kink.

And what I think is going on, at least from what I’ve gathered, is that antis are misunderstanding proshippers as being active proponents of writing certain unseemly things, instead of people who all just collectively looked around and went “that’s none of my business and it’s over there.”

I have been writing fanfiction for almost sixteen years. I have seen it all and done it all. And I have gotta tell ya: I hate this purity culture war. It’s so fucking asinine. No one has ever taken kindly to fandom police ever, so, like, what the fuck.

But it’s more than just people announcing their crusade against pedophiles, incest, and abuse, or whatever flavor of bad they’ve chosen today. It’s that there’s no nuance to anything these people view. And I wanna believe that it’s because they’re young (I swear I don’t see any antis over the age of 22) but I know that a lot of it is just falling for the rhetoric of black and white thinking that gets us into all kinds of messes because nothing in this world is so black and white. No, not even the icky things in fiction.

I’m going to tell you guys something I’ve never said on tumblr before. And some of you may want to unfollow me after I say it. I get it. No hard feelings, no judgment. Here it is: from ages fifteen to seventeen, I cut my fanfiction teeth by writing incest.

I’ll give you a minute to sort yourself out.

Tokio Hotel had just gotten big in America and I was all about it (Jesus Christ I ship RPF too won’t SOMEONE think of the children). Bill and Tom were hot, and I started out writing cutesy self-insert fics that all people write in their early teens, but around age fifteen or so I was starting to get curious about this “twincest” I’d seen people mention. I wanted to write about it, how these two people might go about trying to hide a relationship while dealing with the repercussions of their actions, but I was afraid to. This is incest we were talking about, after all. Bad, dirty, wrong, gross incest. No one in their right mind would ever want to do this. Something had to be wrong with me.

Well, as it turns out, some people knew where I was coming from. I had stumbled into a comparatively small community that welcomed me in and allowed me to write what I wanted to. I started writing that fic (I never did finish it; I’m notorious for that) and I was encouraged along the way to expand my skills and explore my fiction and share and they shared with me what they wrote as well. People of all ages, genders, sexualities, with different life experiences had all come together to write various fictions about twins bangin’. Eventually, I found my niche in basically just using these two people as faceclaims (does anyone even still use that word?) where I plunked them down into different scenarios as unrelated fellows, which allowed me the freedom to do as I pleased. And now I’m here.

I met so many good people in that community, people I’m still friends with now, ten-plus years after leaving. People with families, people who were CSA survivors, people who actually were half of a set of twins, people who’d been raped, who’d been abused, incest survivors, people with mental illness, self-harm scars, suicidal ideation, people who had all kinds of colorful pasts that had all been brought together under this banner of writing fiction about these two German musicians. All of us who understood that what we were writing was fiction and we were just exploring the indomitable need to answer the question “what if?” and would have been appalled if this happened in real life.

Antis will read this and immediately decide I condone incest, and proclaim I’m disgusting and I’m the reason little children are going to be abused by their family members. Just by knowing this one thing about me. And that, right there, is the issue I have with antis.

You don’t know where someone else is coming from, you don’t know why someone is writing this thing, you don’t know who this person is on the other side of the keyboard. They can sit and scream “abusers will use these types of fics to groom people!!!!” but are completely and totally missing the point that abusers will use anything to groom their victims. Weird fanfiction is no more at fault than the Bible is. Shall we cancel the Bible, ban it, because it has stories of incest in it? Because it contains rape? Murder?

Fiction can affect reality, but it is not done in the way they think its done. Because there’s a weird idea that fiction is a 1:1 with reality and it’s not. It’s the “video games cause violence” argument brought back to accuse people of writing things that they don’t like as evil and dangerous. And I am too old for this shit.

There’s no middle ground with antis. You are or you aren’t. You’re part of the problem or you’re part of the solution. There’s only black and white, and if you’re writing the black, you’d better roll out your whole history of abuse and your receipts for a therapist that show you’re allowed to write these things to cope, which, like, Jesus, guys, you can’t just go around demanding to know if someone is a CSA survivor to give them permission to write fic, holy shit?????????? This is a thing now???????

Based on the way antis think, Bryan Konietzko and Michael Dante DiMartino are pedophiles for including romance in Avatar: The Last Airbender. Stephen King encourages underage porn because of the orgy in It. And let’s not even talk about how he condones murder. George RR Martin is a rapist and a proponent of incest because it’s in A Song of Ice and Fire. Eoin Colfer believes in child abuse because he writes about it in his book The Wish List. Do you see where I’m going with this?

To these people, because I’ve written things like incest, or the story I’ve been sitting on for years about teen pregnancy that (oh dear lord) talks about teenagers having the sex with each other, the self-insert fic I wrote at thirteen trying to parse out my attraction to a then 31-year-old Davey Havok, or abuse, or murder, I’m irredeemable and an abuser myself. I would do these things myself if given the chance. They don’t want to know anything else about me. They don’t want to know that I once was physically sick from fear because a family friend hit his wife in front of us and I was so scared. They don’t want to know that I’ve been personally sharpening the guillotine blade for Woody Allen for years. They don’t want to know that an alcoholic I was romantically involved with once tried to kill me. They don’t want to know the struggles I’ve had with mental illness. They don’t want to know that I’ve had to hold the hands of friends who had significant others that would threaten suicide and be emotionally abusive. They don’t want know that I donate to women’s shelters. They don’t want to know that I was part of the group hug that circled around my pseudo-sister when she found out that the boy that had sexually abused her, whom nobody had believed had done anything wrong to her, was finally going to jail for his sex crimes, reveling in her final vindication. That I still deal with the emotional repercussions of my dad taking out his own emotional turmoil on me, my sister, and my mom. That it took me years to forgive my sister for the emotional abuse she subjected me to in the name of hating how weird I was.

They don’t want to know, and moreover, they don’t care. I write bad and scary fiction and therefore I am part of the problem.

The point where we’re at in the world of fanfiction is unthinkable to little thirteen-year-old me’s brain. Things are meticulously tagged with proper warnings and categorized with care because we all went through the dark ages of clicking on a fic and suddenly seeing, like, fisting without knowing what we were getting into.

(My squick is sounding. Ugghghggh, God, it’s so eugh. I don’t even have that part and it makes me so uncomfortable to think about)

All these precautions and safety nets and ways to AVOID seeing anything you don’t want to and it’s still not enough because we in the proship camp are allowing each other to write things we might view as unsavory. Because it’s not for us. Nothing is for us, we just get to go along for the ride.

And because nothing is for us, it’s not any of my business to decide who gets to write what. It’s not my place to say “Laurel over here went ham with the rape fic it’s time to stone her in the square.” Because who the fuck am I???

There are always going to be gross people who misuse this freedom, obviously. Rule 34 has existed for a long time. I was there, Gandalf, for the insurgence of bronies and, just, ugh. But they are the vast minority and the rest of us who write or draw things that are unseemly are just, you know, people. I sell mattresses for a living and I’m on the way to getting an interior design degree and I own a black cat and I’m going to be my sister’s maid of honor. I also occasionally want to partake in media that is unsavory.

It’s why horror is so popular as a genre. Sometimes we want to see just the worst shit imaginable.

This giant pile of crap all boils down to this: I ally myself with the proship camp rather than the antiship camp because I think the antiship camp is wickedly misguided, people who think they are doing good but are actually causing more harm than anyone who is proship ever has. It is not my place, nor is it anyone’s place, to tell other people what they can and cannot do with fiction.

And that’s that.

Feel free to unfollow me if you need to. No hard feelings. I promise. But I hope this means something. We are not proship because we want to harm. We are proship because we’re all fucking weird and it’s not my place or anyone’s place to tell you how to let your weirdness out.

We have the tools at our disposal in a way that our fancestors could have only dreamed of using in order to parse out the perfect fan experience. And antis want to remove all that for the sake of imaginary children.

Absolutely not.

I recommend traipsing through the tag on this blog that does a much better job of parsing all this out because, like, wow, is this deeper than I ever thought it was, but it’s important to know what’s going on.

#long post #don't mind me #just thinking out loud #discourse

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alcorian · 2 years

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'anything that happens ever is vylads fault' is pretty accurate. If Vylad didn't risk his life to get the staff that he hoped would save his brother—Hyria probably would've plunked it down on the falconclaw/o'khasis side, meaning the whole thing with Garroth and Nicole both faking their deaths would've gone very differently. Garroth would be actually dead, and it'd be a lot harder for Aph to build any sort of political influence without being plonked in a town that desperately needed help. Everything would be fundamentally different.

yeah!! vylad is a firestarter :)

#um. bad thing to be when u spend most of your time in a forest i guess #vylad ro'meave #tadofvylad

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thorn-amidst-roses · 2 years

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Also in double-checking some of this stuff because it’s been...awhile since I was last in a theater, I was finally able to pinpoint something that was a source of frustration for a long time when I was a kid and that I really wish at least one teacher had freaking taken the time to explain to me.

So I was plonked in the soprano group, usually the subgroup that had to hit the highest notes in the piece because I could, but I hated it because even though I could, my lower register was much, much more comfortable for me. I always begged to be plunked in with the mezzos or even altos, but always got “look we only have two of you that can hit this note, shut up”.

Literally just today I learned that it probably means my range falls into “dramatic soprano”, which is perfectly that “can do it, although it’s not the most comfortable, and they can be freaking loud in lower registers. Their voices aren’t very agile but they can sustain a note like a motherfucker"-description.

Yes...YES.

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thatbanjobusiness · 3 years

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Today’s Voice Chat consensus:

The three registers of a piano are plink, plunk, and plonk.

#thatbanjobusiness #that banjo business #music #blabbing Haddock

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thegildedlady · 3 years

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Life Itself

In all of Revendreth (and quite probably all of the Shadowlands) no fortress stood with such dominating impenetrability as the spires of Castle Nathria. The structure loomed over the landscape of deep blue pines and thorny underbrush, casting a long shadow onto the valley below. Layer after layer of jutting turrets and stained-glass windows rose up out of the darkness in tiers, with the crackling lightning of anima-extraction glowing through the panes like the crimson compound gaze of a monstrous insect. Atop it all was a giant stone gargoyle whose watchful eye reflected those of the Master as he looked down upon the unfavorable ones residing outside the castle’s walls. Groaning bellies and parched throats were turned away at the gate. No trace of the drought could slip through its iron bars at risk of dampening the revelry within, and the Master would not have that. Those lucky enough to hold a coveted invitation to tonight’s masquerade made their way across the colossal cobblestone bridges that fed into the castle’s core, each Venthyr dressed more lavishly than the last. They dripped with rubies and diamonds and black pearls, golden chains softly rustling against velvet gowns and doublets. No expense could be spared if there was a chance that they might meet their Sire this night. He demanded perfection, and so perfection he would have.

The labyrinthian castle defied all laws of reality, twisting and turning in on itself with hallways that lead to nowhere and stairs that loop infinitely around the echoing stone corridors. An upstart without a proper escort could spend eons wandering Nathria’s grand halls before they ever found the main event that all visitors sought- the ballroom. Every visible inch of the space was leaden with scarlet drapery and gilded candelabras, their gentle light casting shadows on the walls and reflecting off the marble tiled floor. The results gave the whole room a hazy golden glow, much akin to how overindulging on anima consumption can simultaneously ignite and blur the user’s senses. It was a space designed to be jaw-dropping, and it served as the setting for the Dionysian delights of court. Though the ballroom was impressive enough empty, it came alive when the party started. Venthyr of all shapes and sizes packed the room to bursting, even in the air above the dance floor. Over the raucous chatter of the crowd and the tinkling of anima-flutes, a band of dredgers plunked away at waltz after waltz- some fast, some slow, all with an intoxicating rhythm that compelled the feet to move. Even the most sour of souls eventually joined the line for a dance or two. No one, in this afterlife or the next, threw a party like Denathrius.

Little did the pompous partygoers know that a much more exclusive, intimate soirée was taking place at that very moment beneath their feet. If you could peel back the layers of stone that made up the gargantuan structure- starting with the ballroom and digging down, past the private baths, the chef’s kitchen, the disembowelment room, and below the undercroft, one may find themselves standing outside the Master’s botanical laboratory. Two identical, ancient wooden doors guarded the entry, each with a long, pointed window that formed a coffin shape when together. The glass was opaque, but one could still make out the colors inside as they scurried around the room. Should you venture even further past the doors, one may find on any given night two very different people working within.

Cazimir looked the part of head scientist in his pale gray lab coat and goggles. A tug on the chain hanging next to his left ear brought down glass lenses in metal frames over his vision. He was fiddling with piles of indistinguishable plant matter with the intensity of some far more interesting task, while his lab assistant, Ciaragan, was throwing open windows to let the cool night air clear the room. Her smock was darker and dirtier than his, and hung a bit too short on her spindly legs as it was a much better fit for someone Dredger-sized. They were quite the odd couple- in every way Cazimir was ashen and cold, Ciaragan was warm and full of life. Where she was impatient and pessimistic, he was a calm, steady presence. The pair had worked together for what felt like years in Revendreth, though the exact amount of time could not really be measured. Tonight was nothing special. Even the soirée upstairs was to be expected, since Denathrius hosted guests around the clock. Cazimir hummed along with the soft melody floating through the open window, the music traveling down from the balconies of the grand ballroom above them.

“Ciara- pass me the forceps, please.”

She did as he asked, moving away from the open night and towards the dissection kit lying on his desk to retrieve the tool in question.

“Forceps,” she repeated as she plonked them into the palm of Cazimir’s hand.

“Much obliged,” was his reply. He didn’t look up from his work, but let his fingers curl around the metal instrument and added it to his ever-growing pile of sharp, pointy objects that teetered on the edge of the lab table. He resumed humming along with the waltz, hitting every note with eternal familiarity. Ciaragan rested her hand on the back of his chair as she silently watched him work.

“You enjoy this piece?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Though it is not my favorite. They haven’t played that one yet.”

“Are these unique to the Venthyr, or do you play songs from your home world?”

“We play whatever the Sire wants to listen to, of course. His will is the will of Revendreth.”

“Meaning his taste is the taste of Revendreth as well?” she prodded.

He shook his head, taking a moment to lean back in his chair and break the line of concentration he had been walking. Cazimir was always ready to humor Ciaragan’s questioning. There would be time for work later.

“Taste?” he half-chuckled, “Taste is unique to the individual. Entirely subjective.”

“Yet you claim to have a favorite,” she pushed back, a sly smile appearing at the corners of her mouth. “...so there must be something about that particular piece that makes it superior to other pieces.”

He dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “‘Superior’ is the wrong choice of words here, I think. No, I would say instead that there is something appealing to me about that particular piece.”

“So it’s an issue of semantics, then.”

“It’s not an issue at all. It is an instinctive feeling- a warmth that starts in your core and spreads over your body, til your fingers cannot help but tap along to the rhythm and your head swims with the melody.” Cazimir reached up to remove his clunky goggles, tugged his leather work gloves from each finger, and smoothed a hand over his crown of curls.

“It is an attraction; natural as night and day.”

Ciaragan tried not to think about what Cazimir might find attractive. Instead she shrugged coolly before circling around him to take her chair on the opposite side of the lab table.

“I thought we were talking about philosophy, not physiology.”

“We can talk about whatever you desire to, my dear assistant.”

This brought the smile back to her lips. Ciaragan did not mind his doting on her- many more ‘dears’ had been slipping into Cazimir’s vocabulary as of late. He had also started calling her by her nickname, Ciara. The changes in their relationship were subtle, but never slipped past her unnoticed. How could they? No one else in this accursed place had ever shown her the compassion that Cazimir was generously giving. Many Venthyr considered it beneath their standing to interact with the souls bound to Revendreth, preferring the company of those freed from their sinful burdens already. But Cazimir was just... nice. He saw Ciaragan as the person she was and still wanted to be around her. That was more than she was used to.

“Why aren’t you at the party upstairs tonight?”

Cazimir flicked his eyes towards the ceiling, having nearly forgotten it entirely. “Bah, it is no concern of mine. The Master has given me enough to remain occupied with this evening. Besides, there will be another one tomorrow. Always is.”

“Still,” she said as she listened to the sounds of jubilation coming from the open window, “I’m sure you would have more fun there, rather than stuck in here with me.”

“Are you really so sure of this? You wound me, Ciara. I thought you knew me better by now.”

He clutched a hand over his heart and pantomimed his anguish, all the while unable to hide a grin. Ciaragan rolled her eyes and crossed her arms before defending herself.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I can’t imagine picking at bark samples all night is more thrilling than whatever they’re getting up to.” She jabbed a finger upwards, though her eyes were set on the window where sounds of the party crept in to remind them of what they were missing.

Cazimir’s ear swiveled in its socket akin to a bat’s to locate the source of the noise. His eyes lit up when it hit him. “Ah! This is it, you hear? The one I was telling you about- my favorite…”

Before she even registered a change Cazimir appeared at her back and pulled the chair Ciaragan was seated in away from the lab table, bowed regally at the waist, and extended his hand for her to take. She was still in defensive mode, arms tightly wound across her chest and one leg slung over the other’s knee. Her cheeks flushed hot and red, and her mouth fell slightly agape. What was he doing?

“What are you doing?” She demanded, trying to convey the annoyance in her voice clearly.

“I’m asking you to dance the waltz! Does this gesture have a different meaning on your home world?”

“N-no but-”

Her feet left the ground before she could complete the objection. Cazimir was much larger than her and found no trouble scooping her up around the waist to pull her into a spin. He held her hand in his, clumsily at first, but adjusted to a gentle leading grip. Ciaragan felt his arm pinned against her back as he danced her around the room, her shoes barely brushing the floor. You could only just hear the muffled waltz drifting out of the grand ballroom above them. She had meant to protest, but no words would come to her. The mind was a fickle mistress- all that energy formulating how she would berate him for declining her declination was useless when he set her senses alight. Now all she could think about was the closeness of their bodies, the pulse in her wrist, the roughness of his palm, and the heat pooling in her belly. The air between them was hazy and blurred the edges of the world as they spun through it. Her golden gaze locked with his eyes, black as night, and saw the same conflicted desire reflected back at her.

Neither of them realized when the song had ended, or when they had stopped dancing. They just stood like that, holding each other, for some time afterwards. Neither quite knew what to say, either.

Finally, Cazimir blinked.

“I must say… You make an excellent dance partner…” His voice rumbled low in his chest.

Though his own appearance had been somewhat ruffled in their motion, the Venthyr’s undeath kept Cazimir from experiencing the breathlessness Ciaragan was still catching up from. She was much more disheveled than he, with strands of ebony hair falling over her face and dripping down her shoulders. Beads of sweat formed on her brow and her face was awash with rosy colors. Her chest rose and fell, the sound of her labored breathing the only accompaniment to the next song lilting in from above. She stared up at him under heavy eyelids.

Cazimir could not focus on one part of her for long as his eyes swept over every inch of Ciaragan, dark and hungry for her. She had never seen him look at her that way before. It was almost frightening. Almost.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered.

“Nothing, I- ...You’re so-”

With her free arm, she instinctively reached to push the hair from her eyes and fix herself. “Oh, I must look all out of sorts.”

He stopped her before she could reach anything, taking her ever so gently by the wrist and bringing it down to meet the other as he placed his hands around hers.

“You look like life itself, my dear. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

----------------

There were no birds to sing the arrival of day in Revendreth, no sunrise to paint the sky in pink and golden hues- mornings were just as shadowy and gray as the evening time. The guests of the Master dragged themselves back home at break of dawn, worn and weary and gorged on anima. Every soul in attendance would be riding on Denathrius’s coat tails for weeks to come as they delighted their village with tales of the Master’s decadence. Though all would claim to have had the best night of their afterlives, that special victory was quietly confined within two coffin-shaped doors deep inside Castle Nathria’s corridors. Ciaragan slept a dreamless slumber, while Cazimir kept watch over her nearby. What they shared was heaven, hell, and everything in between.

#a scene #ciaragan

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cleverwordsandotherstuffilike · 3 years

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If all plinks are plonks and some plunks are plinks, which of these statements must be true?

X: All plinks are plunks.

Y: Some plonks are plunks.

Z: Some plinks are not plunks.

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mouser26 · 4 years

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Saga of Spitefish

Settle in kiddos and let me tell you a tale of the most spiteful of fish.

It all started Oct 2012. I had just moved out on my own for the first time and just gotten over a nasty cold when the Big Fresno Fair came to town (county fair big yearly deal ok?) I decided to be all super adult and go by myself for the first time. Had a grand old time and on the way out I spotted one of those classic gold fish games

Now I remember playing the shit outa this when I was a kid. So for nostalgia’s sake I decided to buy 4 balls for $1. I was actually chatting with the attendant while I tossed mentioning I used to do this a lot as a kid and never won-

PLONK!

I fucking got one in. So I now I have a fucking like 2inch goldfish who gets to ride home in my cupholder. I picked up a tiny thing of food on the way home and upon arrival plunked the little bastard into a tea despenser

I didn’t expect him to last long at all as is the usual fate of fish won at a fair. Now I was aware goldfish need better than a shitty still water bowl but I was not going to invest in a proper tank set up for a fish that might to belly up the next day.

In spite of expectations he lasted not only the night but a week, and then two. I started looking into tanks when my Landlords informed me their daughter had left behind a 3.5gal tank complete with filter pump and the lot. So he got a proper set up and a name Dr. Sheldon Tronzler named for Dr. Horrible, Sheldon Cooper, and Tron+Rinzler from Tron: Legacy

Now I was not a good fish parent. I didn’t give him a huge tank, he never had tankmates, I sucked at keeping a regular cleaning schedule... and yet he continued to live and grow, once again, in spite of every website saying that he should have died. I’m sure you’ve caught on to where his nickname came from. I was rather convinced if I actually gave him any positive enforcement he would go belly up just to Spite me So Spitefish he became.

2 years later (Nov’14 and a couple tank decorations later) I moved 2.5hrs away with Spitefish in a 1/2gal pitcher

I stupidly bought him a tank half the size of the one he had been in (I didn’t get to keep the other)

I had not realized how big he had gotten until he developed black bruises on his nose and tail cause he was far too big for this tiny ass tank.So off to Petsmart I went and ended up coming home with a 10gallon tank for $10 (whoot sales)

However I still wasn’t gonna invest heavily in the lil shit so he got dollarstore glassbeads, the small filter from the tank (meant for 1-5gal), so on and so forth.

I even joked in 2016 when so many celebs were dying that “Watch that lil shit is gonna go belly up to show them how it’s done.” He didn’t cause of course fuck me

So every year on his ‘birthday’ he got a new tank toy or like a filter upgrade or other treat.

Now here’s the thing this little shit got his revenge in many ways. His favorite was waiting till late at night especially when I was home alone and making noise by moving rocks in his tank. YOu wouldn’t think this would make noise but i swear it was like the window scene from Salem’s lot. I can not count the number of times this fucker gave me a heartattack. And bonus points because he was kept in my bathroom/the main house bathroom he had fun freaking out any guests that came over by popping out of his plants when they were using the facilties and just STARING.

He even made it the 2.5hrs back to my hometown in March 2020 this time in a 3gal bucket. He was promptly set up in my new kitchen as he was in his first home years ago.

Sadly on August 11th 2020 at 3am I found him swimming on his side apparently having swim bladder issues (something we had dealt with once before) given the time all I could really do was clean out his tank and tried feeding him some peas hoping it might help but planning to keep a close eye on him. He seemed active just...sideways.

When I walked into the kitchen 12hrs later (I had to sleep sometime) He was dead. Still on his side at the bottom of the tank That fucker went and died while I was asleep and couldn’t even do anything even had I been awake.

He would have been 8 this year and now that he’s dead I can say I loved the little bastard and he will be very much missed. A great eulogy given by my friend Jessika (my roomate when I first got the stubborn fucker)

He was a mighty fish. Who lived an honorable life doing what he loved swimming and existing to spite others. He lived his life in defiance of the expectations of God and man belly full of contempt, steadfast and anchored towards the center of the earth never rolling over towards the sky. Perhaps in his many years of knowing you he was finally being able to let go of all the fight that kept him going and was able to die at peace knowing that he changed the world or at least your kitchen for enough time to satisfy him. RIP Spitefish.

#Spitefish

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bohemian-napsodyy · 5 years

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My Everything (Elliot Alderson x Reader)

Request: Could I request a imagine where Elliot becomes involved with an Au Pair who’s visa is up and needs to go home but is the only person Elliot can open up to and truly needs that person -- requested by anon

Warnings: so this is kinda really sad, and one of my more grief-heavy imagines. please read with caution if you’re sensitive with that sort of stuff 💗 take care my friends, I love you.

Word Count: around 2K

A/N: not much to say other than,,,, sorry

“The store was all out of vanilla extract,” you began as you stumbled into your host family’s apartment, both arms full with bags of groceries. “But I think there’s enough leftover in your pantry to get at least one batch of cookies made.”

“Oh, thank you mija.” Theresa came running to meet you, giving you an appreciative smile as she took one of the grocery bags from under your arm.

“Of course,” you replied, giving your tired arms a little shake as you set the other bag of groceries down on the counter with a plonk. “I hope you don’t mind — there’s a pack of sour keys in there for Isabel. I wanted to get her a treat, as a little goodbye gift from me.”

Theresa beamed and threw her arms around you before you could process what was happening. You had been staying with your host family for months, and Theresa’s sudden hugs still caught you off guard from time to time.

“She will love it. Gracias, mija. You’ve been such a big help for all of us these last few months.”

“Of course.” You answered, a small smile blooming on your face. “When Isabel gets home from school, I was wondering if it was okay to take her on a little adventure? They’ve got a new Egyptian exhibit at the Museum of Natural History, and I think she might have fun there-”

“No, no,” Theresa interrupted, gently guiding you away from the groceries you had begun to unpack. “You’ve done more than enough for us, Y/N. You deserve some time to yourself.”

“Are you sure-”

“¡Si! You only have a week left before you go home, go explore! See the city! Have fun.”

Theresa’s smile was like sunshine as she handed you your coat.

“Your work is officially done.” She announced. “I’m sure your boyfriend would love to spend some extra time with you.”

You felt your cheeks heat up instantly as Theresa winked at you. You felt your heart begin to do somersaults in your chest. “Oh, I’m not… uh, I mean, Elliot’s not… we’re just… just friends.”

Theresa only gave you a knowing look as you continued to protest while you threw your coat and shoes on. Suddenly all you wanted to do was get out of the conversation as quickly as possible.

“Right,” you mumbled, stuffing your hands into your pockets awkwardly. “I’ll, uh, be back home later tonight!”

“Okay, mija — be safe, alright?”

“I will!” You called back to Theresa as you made your way out the door and down the street. Thank god you left when you did — there was just so much about yours and Elliot’s relationship you didn’t want to get into.

Like the fact that you really liked him. But there was no use in acting upon your feelings — you were flying home in a week, and you know Elliot was the last person on earth who’d ever be able to maintain a long distance relationship.

It would be too hard for him emotionally. He could barely handle your occasional three-day absence when Theresa took you and the rest of the family out for weekend trips. By the time you’d get back from camping in the Catskills, you’d head over to Elliot’s to find he hadn’t slept in 36 hours, hadn’t eaten anything in 12, and probably hadn’t left his apartment since you last saw him.

You couldn’t just ask him out. For Elliot it was much more than that. By asking him out you’d be placing another whole world on his shoulders. You couldn’t just pull something like that on him.

So instead you just stayed friends. It hurt like hell sometimes, especially when he’d break down. You’d want nothing more than to pull him into your arms and kiss him all over and just altogether show him that he was so incredibly loved. But you had a feeling Elliot knew about your feelings. He could read people easily, and you were no exception. When he’d ask how your day was, he’d catch the hesitation in your voice before you said ‘good.’. Then before you knew it, he’d be sitting on the couch with you, watching Back to the Future II under a shared blanket in hopes that it would cheer you up.

Just as Elliot could read you, you could read him. And something was definitely wrong today.

You knocked gently on his door four times, your way of signalling it was you. You heard a shuffle in his apartment, but there was no answer. You instinctively tried the doorknob, hoping you could just let yourself in, but it was locked.

“Elliot?” You called out, tapping once more on the door. “It’s me. Can I come in?”

The shuffling noises stopped. The only answer you got was complete silence. You couldn’t help but sigh at his reaction, your heart sinking. You were afraid he was going to react this way.

“Elliot,” you began again, your voice cracking ever so slightly as you leaned your forehead against the door. “I know you’re in there. Please let me in.”

You heard a scuffle, maybe a chair being pushed back. Then silence again. “If you don’t want to see me, that’s fine.” You called out, biting your lip as you ignored the sting in your eyes. “I just… wanted to see you as much as I could before I have to leave at the end of the week.”

You paused for a moment, hoping that maybe your words would make him change his mind and he’d open up to you.

“It’s okay.” You weren’t sure at this point if you were trying to convince Elliot, or yourself. “I can say goodbye now.”

You weren’t even sure if Elliot was even listening. You felt like a fool as you sucked in a breath, but you pressed on.

“I’’m going to miss you like crazy, El,” You let out a breathy laugh as your hand trailed weakly down the door and dropped at your side. You sunk to your knees, feeling a little pathetic as you plunked yourself down at Elliot’s front door.

“You’ve been my best friend since I’ve been in New York.” You continued. “And… well, I know things haven’t always been wonderful, but we’ve always been there for each other. And I guess… god, what am I trying to get at here? Sorry.”

You cut yourself off as you heard footsteps approach you. You could almost see Elliot’s shadow from under the door, he was so close, but he still didn’t open the door.

“Even when I leave and go back home, I’ll still be there for you.” You told him, your voice quivering as you kept your gaze on his shadow from under the door. “No matter what time of day it is, I’ll be there for you. You can text me anytime. You’re my best friend, Elliot… I’m so glad I got to meet you. You’re a lovely person with a warm, kind heart, and you deserve someone who will see that and honour it. And…”

You paused. Oh fuck it, you thought. It’s now or never.

“I just wanted to tell you that I love you. At least once, before I go. Because I know I’ll regret it if I don’t and-”

The door swung open so violently, you almost fell over with a yelp. Startled, you glanced up to see Elliot gazing down at you with a look up utter bewilderment on his face.

“…You do?” It seemed like an eternity before he finally spoke again. You could only nod as you pushed yourself up onto your feet. Elliot’s gaze roamed all over your face, as if he was just waiting for you to start laughing and say you were just kidding around.

“I love you Elliot.” You whispered. “I have for a while now.”

You had never seen Elliot act so fast. Before you could process what was happening, he had suddenly yanked you into the tightest hug. It startled you — Elliot always hated hugs, and had only ever patted you lightly on the back whenever you hugged him yourself. His hugs were always a little bit… noodle-like.

But this time, his hug was so firm, it startled you. He was almost crushing all the air out of your lungs with how tightly his arms were wrapped around you. You were about to ask him to let go, only a little, but then you felt him trembling. He buried his face into your neck, and your heart almost broke right on the spot.

He was sobbing.

“Oh, Elliot.” You gasped, wrapping your arms tightly around his thin frame in return. You didn’t care if he suffocated you. You just wanted him to know you were there for him, whatever it took.

“It’s okay,” you mumbled over and over, pulling him as close to you as you could manage.

“No it’s not,” you caught him answer. “You’re going away.”

You wanted to argue against that. You wanted to tell him you’d be back, that you wouldn’t be gone for long, that before he knew it you’d be back here with him and everything would be fine and the two of you could watch all the 80s movies you wanted together.

But you didn’t know that. You’d be lying if you said any of those things. To be honest, you weren’t sure if you’d ever be able to come back, at least for the next few years. Airfare was something you just couldn’t afford easily.

So all you could do was pull Elliot closer. Hold him tighter.

But then, as you were tracing tiny circles comfortingly across Elliot’s back, your gaze landed on two tiny plastic pill bottles sitting on the table, and your heart dropped.

Fucking hell.

Elliot was back on the morphine again.

“No.” You gasped, instinctively pushing Elliot away before you could stop yourself. You saw the hurt on his face, but it didn’t quite register in your mind. “Elliot, no! What the hell!?”

You were crying now as well. All you could see in your mind was your best friend, sprawled out in utter pain on the bed, moaning for help while you tried your best to keep a steady hand in his and not break down in front of him.

You witnessed Elliot go through withdrawal before. He went through things no human should ever experience, it was heartbreaking. And you knew that he was going to run out of morphine eventually. When that time came, you wouldn’t be able to be there for him.

“Why?” You asked desperately, feeling as though the entire room was spinning. “Why the morphine again?”

“It’s the only way I can deal with the pain.” Elliot mumbled. He kept his gaze on the floor, unwilling to meet your own eyes.

“You said you were done with that shit for good.” You protested. Your breath hitched in your throat as a sob approached. “You promised me you’d stop!”

“You’re leaving me alone!” Elliot yelled back, his own voice thick with tears. “You’re all I have, Y/N, how the fuck do you expect me to deal with that?”

You covered your face with your hands as you sobbed. You didn’t want Elliot to see you this way. This wasn’t how you wanted today to go.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice was barely intelligible as it was thick with tears and muffled behind your hands. “Elliot, I’m so sorry. I don’t want to leave, I don’t, I really don’t, but my visa…”

You felt Elliot’s arms wrap around you once more, and this time you were the one to bury your face in his shoulder.

“I don’t want you to leave either,” Elliot whispered, his voice trembling. “You’re everything I have.”

“I-it’s okay,” you managed to get out. You held onto Elliot as though your life depended on it. “We’ve still got a few more days. I’ll be here.”

“And what about after that?”

You paused, leaning your head against Elliot’s shoulder with a sigh as you breathed in his scent. You secretly wished you could memorize every little detail about him so that you’d never lose him.

“We don’t think about what comes after.”

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