#Turning off reblog pre emptively

[neurodecadence]

If i swing a sword and I watch it go through a rat, and then the game says "no u missed tho" while the rat bites me to death, that's not skill issue, that's bad game design.

[oplishin]

what are your thoughts on patho 2 re race

i don't think you were looking for such a long response but uhhh you're getting one!!!!! smarter people have discussed this better, but i have a lot of feelings.

the good:

the broad strokes of artemy's relationship to his race: everytime i have replayed p2, i find myself surprised by how much artemy's angst resonates with me. he can fit into the broader, white culture of the Town, but that acceptance is always conditional. his friends have this "you're not like them" attitude, or they're just outright racist to him. they hate his people but like him. He's also not accepted by the Kin- he's spent too much time both in the Town and outside of it. the way elders in the community chide him is too real, haha. artemy discovering that the cultural practices he ran away from in his youth actually really, really matter to his identity is a feeling i find uhhh really relatable!!! this aspect of p2 just rings really emotionally true.

i like the way (some of) the racism is written: vlad jr is obsessed with learning about the culture of the Kin, he's even gained some trust with them, but wow, he does not give a shit about them when it comes down to it. they're an object of study to him, artifacts to collect, not actually people. andrey takes the cultural art of twyre tinctures and uses it to make a profit and to get really high. he keeps a dancing herb bride in his bar as entertainment. rubin's deal feels similar, he's learning kin traditions because of his weird weird relationship with isidor, but he hates the people. i like that foreman oyun sells out his culture, and that he hates himself so much for it.

okay. it's only downhill from here.

the bad. there's a lot:

the endings

i think the endings are cynical to the point of being unnuanced and un-interesting. the tragic mulatto trope played as straight as possible to a comically extreme degree. either almost every NPC you've met dies, or you destroy the remnants of your indigenous culture. it's just. i don't know. it wouldn't be very pathologic for this to have an actual magical solution- there isn't a magical solution in real life, the status quo just churns onward, and indigenous bodies and lives are discounted. i don't know. i don't know!

i hate that the game presents the diurnal ending as better than the nocturnal one. this is the part where my faulty memory is troublesome- i may be getting the way the fandom treats the endings mixed up with the way the game does. sorry if that's the case! the diurnal ending is bright, the town you've spent so much time saving is safe at last, all your children and friends are rebuilding their lives in interesting ways that you get to take part in. but it's fucking disgusting! the bodies and lives and culture of indigenous people are utterly discounted. this includes artemy, who's doomed to forever try to fit into white society, to never be able to pass on his cultural traditions, who just has to let himself die. the only person who mourns is a dying Aspity, who was one of the last people to carry on and teach tradition anyways. it's terrible.

i,, honestly do not remember much of the nocturnal ending, and a lot of went over my head when i played it. the majority of people read the nocturnal ending as "the bad ending"- all your friends die. and even though they're all super racist, you care about them, probably.

whyyyyyy are the indigenous characters written Like That????

it is fucking embarrassing that 26/29 of the Bound are white. i cannot believe this did not change with 14 years of hindsight post p1. well, the game did add nara, and she deserves her own paragraph!!!! wow, lucky her!!!!!!!!! the kin are so fucking underrepresented within the major characters. the white characters are given complex, differing perspectives about the nature of government, spirituality, morality and guilt. pathologic 2 writes the Kin as a mystical, esoteric hivemind. the non-diversity in the perspectives within the Kin was always something that bothered me, even when I was 15. They do not feel like a real, breathing living group of people. minority groups are not monoliths. i think the game wants to represent them as a collectivist culture, but is too racist to know that people within collectivist cultures uhhh have opinions about things.

p2's racism is just slightly more subtle than p1's, to the point where my stupid fucking 15 year old self didn't pick up on it as much. but god, it also asks the incredible question "what if racist stereotypes were true? wouldn't that sort of justify mass genocide? isn't the diurnal ending just as valid as the nocturnal ending?"

so much justification for the white characters' racism within the fandom comes from "but the indigenous characters did [x] bad thing! but their culture is misogynist!" which 1) fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you 2) someone made the active choice to write the indigenous characters like this. now why would they do this??

the misogyny

god i fucking hate the herb brides. i know that the fandom has tried to reclaim them in interesting ways. i just really cannot. why are these dancers all soft and curvy in the correct ways? why do their clothes fall off to look like they're wearing raggedy skimpy swimsuits? why are gamers soooo horny?? i'm. i cannot! i can't. this game has an asian women fetish. no thanks!

this brings me to the nara thing, which, okay. i'm about to get really mean!!! nara is this demure, docile, exotically sexy lady who's totally cool with giving up her agency artemy and being killed by him because the game has deemed it necessary. sorry, i do not care abotu the diegetic reasons for this. there's a dream sequence where her sexy sillohuette dances in the void. why? this game has a misogyny problem! and a yellow fever problem!! so much of her dialogue is dedicated to "ohhh i'm trying to make you less uncomfortable with this, artemy :(. i'm indifferent i promise :((" she doesn't protest in her death, she just says lore at the player. i'm not happy. i find the attempts to reclaim her in fandom admirable, i'm just. disgusted! by all of it! this game owes me reparations.

[werewolf-cuddles]

I hate that every single post about Bridget inevitably turns into an argument about whether she's trans or a femboy.

Like, every single fucking time, without fail, the replies will devolve into an "anti-woke localization" circlejerk.

The fact remains that, regardless of what your personal opinion on the matter is, Bridget is officially trans in Guilty Gear Strive. This has been the canon status quo for the past 2 years.

Move the fuck on already.

[undead-mourning-dove]

god That Post is getting notes again someone kill me now. anyway 'uh, yeah, this type of fictional work which notably influences people in real life DOES do that, but that doesn't mean fiction affects reality!' isn't the ground-breaking take some of you think it is

[panstarry]

will u still continue artfight? whats going on with af

hi! yes, i will still be continuing to participate in art fight. no, the event is not over.

just to start off: i joined art fight as a user in 2016, was hired as a chat & site mod on february 2018, and resigned in march 2022. my resignation was due to the fact that at the time, i could no longer keep up with mod responsibilities while juggling school, work, and extracurricular activities.

right now, there's been staff resignations across the server/site for multiple reasons. i'm erring on the side of caution at the moment and will let further announcements disclose exactly why. nobody, former or current, is calling for boycotts. and personally, i'm of the opinion that referring to what's happening right now as a "strike" is inaccurate. you can continue working on your attacks and participating in the current event. every one of us loves art fight and would like to see it continue and have also worked to make sure that users are able to enjoy it as well. i would advise against donating to the site until the dust settles.

there's a lot of misinformation and out-of-context messages going around right now. please take these with a grain of salt: i saw a couple docs and screenshots going around with outdated or straight up incorrect information (for some reason i saw mentions of a data breach going around? there is no data breach, i don't know where people are even getting that from. furthermore, there is no "ceo of artfight". art fight is not a corporation or a company, so this language, to me, does not properly describe what's happening rn)

i'm not sure what can be disclosed to the public aside from this ^ so please hang tight, be excellent to each other, so on & so forth. thank you <3

[cool-jpgs-of-wizards-with-swords]

I understand the importance of queer self defense, especially in cultures like those of the united states where guns are ubiquitous. But if you take claim to take emergency preparedness seriously and carry a gun without having first aid training I'm not gonna get along with you super good.

[softmatzohtruther]

the fuckin secret service is all over the area of the city i work in (again) and the weirdest thing about it is the banal mundanity of it all. they block up the alleyway where our employees enter the building (presumably to keep snipers from getting to the roof) and it's easy enough for me to get inside at the start of my shift (i start before dawn) but during the afternoon they're stationed up with police tape and im like, hey, (to the nearest fed), can i get out of here?? and he's like 🤨 you can leave but you cant come back. and i gotta control my urge to yell why the fuck would i come back to work when my shift is over. because i know it's bc of the snipers

[vaspider]

Pre-emptively turning off reblogs because people haven't been able to behave.

Pride has always been about standing up to bullies.

[rosewaterandivy]

Part 3. hopelessly hopeful

Summary: Rumor has it, that hometown hero-turned-teacher Steve Harrington is hot for teacher. The English teacher next door to him at Hawkins High, who also happens to be his childhood friend, that is.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x chaotic!dumbass reader

Warnings: no use of y/n - reader goes by Trouble instead, depictions of heartbreak/grief, cursing, pop-punk slander by one Eddie Munson, Thanksgiving mention, protective!robin, scheming!nancy, sad girl hours continue

A/N: Modern!Teacher AU, English teacher reader, History teacher Steve, slow burn, friends to lovers, romance. Here’s 3.7K of multi-perspective tension, sexual and otherwise; feedback and reblogs are appreciated, enjoy!

series masterlist | playlist

previous || next

Then - Fall term, Thanksgiving break

There’s only so many days you can sulk in bed. Wrapped in a blanket swaddle of your own creation, it’s almost impressive; everything you could possibly need is within reach – snacks, drinks, and entertainment options. 

“You alright?”

It’s cold.

Winter has well and truly arrived in Hawkins, frost dusting the windowpanes and an ever-present chill in the air. Brief winter winds hit the town, snow flurries dusting the streets but never enough to stick. Still too early in the season for that.

You bundle up all over - two pairs of woolen socks, a sweatshirt stolen from god knows who, and too-long sweatpants snatched from Steve or Eddie, a quilt gracing your shoulders like a cape. Your friends try not to chide your melancholy overmuch, but the stubborn part of you still misses him.

Miss his eyes. His hands. The steadying effect of his voice.

Barely a month out and you’re already slipping. Eddie took it upon himself to delete your ex’s number, socials, and whatever other vestiges of your past life he could find from your phone. Some nights you’re thankful for his pre-emptive measures, most nights you’re not.

You spend most of your weekend mornings sleeping in as late as your body would allow because any moment awake was another moment that your mind will wander back to him. You feel ripped asunder, oscillating between accepting the fact that your engagement and relationship is over, and then letting yourself grow frustrated for allowing yourself to fall into this trap in the first place.

You wish you had never said yes to him last December. Never gone to that party back in college, never given him your number, never kissed him, never made love to him. You still ache to think of him, and you can only blame yourself.

Under a heavy spare quilt (Steve’s, naturally), you shiver. Due to the cold or your heartbreak, who's to say?

Eddie heaves a sigh and joins you on the couch. “Okay, sad girl,” he says, curling you to his side. He’s gentle handling you, warm hands tucking the blanket around your prone body with light touches. You’ve been lying immobile on the couch for the better part of the morning, long enough to make it through Bladerunner: 2049 without falling asleep.

They’re all understandably concerned.

You cry at the drop of a hat now, it seems. You throw things in frustration and have a quicker temper. You stare viciously at the black hole of your phone screen. You adamantly refuse to look at yourself mirrors. You sleep fitfully at night, tossing and turning against the sofa in the loft. Only admitting defeat when Steve pads in and sleepily leads you to his room with slurred murmurs of “Jus’ take my bed, honey. S’fine.” 

You hate that you sleep best curled alongside someone else. 

And Eddie’s all the more concerned because he’s been keeping an eye on your Spotify activity. Too many emo playlists from high school for comfort. He’d nearly staged an intervention when he walked past your classroom yesterday and heard something off of From Under the Cork Tree. Luckily Steve was able to talk him off the ledge.

“Look, I know you don’t approve,” he said pulling Eddie into his classroom by the back of his shirt, “But I know that when she listens to this song–”

“The fact that you know it is cause for concern, Harrington.”

“Uh, it’s more concerning that you know this song, Munson.” He huffs and runs a hand through his disheveled hair. ”Regardless,” he pats Eddie’s shoulder, “She’s trying to move on and that’s a good thing, trust me.”

And sure, he’d give Steve the benefit of the doubt. But he still has half a mind to scrub your Spotify data and start from scratch. For now, he settles for sitting with you as the opening credits roll for the first film in the Lord of the Rings trilogy, extended edition, of course.

Nancy did it on purpose, but she’d never admit it. 

Just booked the AirBnB she’d been eyeing after you’d mentioned, casually, that your parents would be in California with extended family for the holiday. You’d bailed to avoid any uncomfortable questions. 

Friendsgiving it was then. Nancy and Jonathan would join the rest of you the day after Thanksgiving for a belated celebration. Until then, you had the cabin to yourselves. 

A little cabin by tucked away in a forest, earth damp from the mist and air fresh with the scent of petrichor. The car slows to a stop and Eddie cuts the engine. Robin bounds out of the front seat, all flailing legs and arms, desperate to claim the best bed for herself.

You roll your head to release the tension in your neck and elbow open the backdoor to step out of the car. Steve jerks himself awake aided by the thunk of the trunk being slammed shut and Eddie’s whistling. You allow yourself a soft laugh watching as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, glasses forgotten in the mess of his hair.

Blinking blearily, he exited the vehicle to help Eddie load the groceries and luggage inside. Trying to outdo each other with how many bags they could carry with the least amount of trips. With a roll of your eyes, you follow them into the cabin taking care to wipe your shoes on the mat by the door.

Unfortunately, you were greeted by an unavoidable fact. Apparently, there weren’t enough beds. Four to be exact, two singles and two queens. Eddie and Robin had already taken the singles, while Nancy had specifically requested the room at the back of the cabin. Which only left the queen bed in the upstairs loft or the couch.

Quite the predicament.

You tell yourself that it’s only for a few days, then you’ll be back to Hawkins before you know it. Back to reality and the countdown to winter break. You just needed a little reprieve, a few hours drive from your small town and running into students at the grocery store. Some time and space to clear your head and get over this thing.

Taking a deep breath to settle yourself, and it’ll be fine. It’s just Steve. The guy you’ve known since you were in diapers, no reason to worry. He knows everything about you there is to know. Well, nearly everything. 

A sharp inhalation of air as you trudge up the steps to deposit your duffle bag on the bed. That’s it then, you and Steve would take the loft and suffer through a few days of close quarters.

Not like you hadn’t done it before.

You’d been through worse; the camping trip of 2015 comes to mind.

“Huh,” he says after shutting the front door, shoots you a grin from the first-floor landing. “I’ll just crash on the couch,” he declares, “Give you some space.”

“No, don’t do that.” 

“S’fine,” he insists, “I’m sure it’s comfortable enough.” He tosses his bag onto the sofa cushions, a plume of dust bursting from the fabric, motes lazily drifting through the receding evening sun. “Shit,” he coughs, hand waving the dust out of the air, “Maybe not.”

Your laughter is soft, quiet as if it’s just for him to hear. A shake of your head as you descend the stairs. “Not gonna happen Harrington,” and it’s a promise. 

You lean in slowly, hand warm against his arm as you slip the backpack over your shoulder and turn to go back upstairs. Your free hand links fingers with his to tug him along. He follows you willingly, like he always has.

“I don’t like it,” Robin whispers to Eddie after dinner, arms soaked to the elbow with soapy water while she washes the dishes and passes them off for drying. He hums, taking a plate from her before wiping it down with a dish towel. “This forced proximity thing is not going to work out the way Wheeler thinks it will.”

“C’mon Buckley, would it kill you to be an optimist here? Harrington’s your best friend, after all.”

“Exactly,” she nods, “Which is how I know that this whole thing,” she gestures wildly around, soap suds flying, “Is going to implode. And we’ll be left to pick up the pieces.”

Eddie shoves his tongue to his cheek in an effort not to refute Robin, even though he vehemently disagrees with her assessment of the situation. If he had to come down on someone’s side, it would be yours, without a doubt. Sure, you were sulky and sad but that was to be expected - you were mourning for fuck’s sake.

Though you were crashing at the loft until the end of the year, just until you could secure a short-term lease somewhere, when he got up for work in the mornings you were not on the sofa where he’d left you those nights before. In fact, the only thing that did remain was the quilt you’d salvaged from Steve’s bedroom.

And speaking of Steve, his door was unusually cracked open, a sliver of morning light flooding across the hallway. Soft rises and falls of conversation sound out from his room, echoes amplified in the corridor. Your bright laughter quickly shushed by Steve, the sound of rustling sheets.

Eddie smiles at the memory, setting the plate in the drying rack by the sink and turning to Robin. “I think it’s sweet,” he admits, “And I think they both need something to hold on to right now.” He leans back against the cramped kitchen’s counter, elbows bent and fingers wrapped under the edge. A shrug of acknowledgment, “Just so happens they’re holding on to each other.”

Robin sighs, knowing that he’s right. She subconsciously mimics Eddie’s posture, fingers gripping the edge of sink and eyes falling to the dishwater as she faces the basin. “I just–” she breathes, eyes flitting up to him, wary. “I’m afraid he’ll get hurt… hurt, again.”

She shakes her head and pulls the plug of the drain, water groaning its way down the old pipes. Keeps her voice low, whispering, “Eddie you’ve been there, he’s in this endless cycle with her.” She grabs the towel from him to dry her hands, “Just over and over again while she’s completely oblivious to it.”

He nods in sympathy, hand coming to her shoulder and giving a squeeze. “Rob, I get where you’re coming from. Really, I do.” He tongues his cheek once more, searching for the right words. “And as much as we care,” he gestures between them, “At the end of the day it’s still their choice.” He pulls her in for a hug, chin resting against her head.

Robin allows herself to lean on him, groaning as her head knocks against his chest. “They’re just such idiots Eds.”

She can feel the vibration of laughter from his chest, “They sure as shit are, Buckley.” He draws back, looks her in the eye, “Luckily for them, they’ve got us looking out for ‘em, hmm?”

“Yeah,” she grouses, with no real heat behind it, “Lucky.”

Steve has to all but drag you to bed, thanks in no part to the cans of hard kombucha Eddie kept sliding your way. “You’re such a punk,” you pout, completely limp in his arms as he schleps you upstairs, “Was havin’ a good time, don’t wanna sleep.”

“Right,” he grunts, dragging you up the final step into the loft, “I’m the bad guy because I stopped you from crushing cans against your skull.”

“Yeah,” Robin joins in, phone in hand as she documents what she calls ‘clown chronicles’ and Steve has half a mind to be offended at his inclusion; he may be slow on the draw but you are an actual fool, hand to god. “Why you gotta ruin my blackmail material Harrington?”

You hurumph in displeasure, purposefully wiggling to make his life even more difficult. He drops you on the wooden planks in retaliation. “Rude,” you scowl petulantly, struggling to get your arms and legs working again.

“Well, if you’re gonna be a brat about it…” Steve trails off, distracted by searching your luggage for pajamas. He makes his way through socks and pants, a shirt you swear you didn’t steal from him in college, “What the hell—“

A bark of laughter, as if you just remembered something, “Would you believe,” you can’t stop yourself from laughing, “I packed three coats and no pjs!”

Steve halts his search, annoyed. Drops the articles of clothing unceremoniously in the duffle bag. Turns to you, hands on his hips and disapproving, “You’re a walking disaster.”

In that time, you’d wedged yourself between the top of the second floor landing and the dresser, slumped against the wall and were, yup, about to tumble down the stairs. He grabs you around the middle, hefting you over his shoulder and praying you wouldn’t upchuck at the sudden movement. 

You giggle and squeal, legs kicking against his back and chest as he plops you down on the bed. He begins to peel the sweater from your torso as you bat his hands away with a lazy smile, “If you wanted in my pants Stevie, all you had to do was ask.”

Steve sputters at your innuendo, choking and coughing over his own spit like an absolute imbecile. Mutters, “Fuck you so much,” under his breath once he can think again.

“Atta girl!” Eddie shouts from the landing by the stairs, “Make him work for it, Trouble.”

“Not helping dumbass,” Steve calls out, hand scrubbing down his face tiredly. 

Eddie and Robin say their goodnights and make themselves scarce. Flopped back on the bed, he watches your breathing even out with the rise and fall of your chest. How did you fall asleep so quickly? 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Steve says, fingers snapping to wake you back up, “C’mon, gotta shower and get ready for bed.”

“No,” you whine, eyes screwed shut, “S’comfy and I’m tired.”

It’s hard to convince himself to rally and get you up again. Sprawled like a star-fish across the bed because you’re, yeah, an asshole who takes up the entire bed. His gaze is fond as you rustle against the sheets, breathes out a sigh of relief. 

He sits at the foot of the bed, knocks against your leg, “Hey, wake up.” A slow shake from your head that’s currently smushed into a pillow. “Mmm, that’s too bad,” he sighs, “Guess I’ll just go ahead and prepare a bath for myself then.”

Earlier, he’d noticed the upstairs bathroom had a nice clawfoot tub. And you are, if nothing, a slut for a good soak in the bath. It was the only way your family could convince you to go camping and backpacking in the summers, by dangling a stay at a hot spring or spa for the trip home.

Steve stands back up to really sell the idea, and wanders into the bathroom. Bless the AirBnB host because the sink and tub are well-stocked with every kind of toiletry you could want. Glass jars filled with various bath bombs ranging in color and scent, shower gels from Le Labo, and skincare from some brand called La Mer.

He turns the hot water faucet as far as it’ll go, because you like a bath “hotter than hell and twice as steamy.” Runs his fingers under the water, gauging the temperature and turning the cold water tap as he hears your footfalls against the tile. 

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” he says, winding an arm around your waist. Rolls a sleeve up to his elbow and plugs the drain deeming the temperature sufficient. 

Pulled against Steve’s side, you rub at your eyes and survey your surroundings. And, true to his word, it’s a fucking nice tub. Technically, it’s a tub/shower combo with an extendable shower head, a tasteful shower curtain pushed to one side of the basin. He nudges you to pick a bath bomb and tosses it in, colors melting into the water as it fills the tub.

“Not so bad, yeah?” 

Setting you back against the sink as you nod, Steve opens his dopp kit and grabs a toothbrush. You’re quiet as you watch him squeeze some toothpaste on the bristles and brush his teeth, his eyes meet yours in the mirror and he winks.

Easy laughter as he turns back to you, jaw holding the toothbrush in place while he helps you pull off your sweater and tosses it into the bedroom. Stumbling briefly, your palm lands against his chest where you can feel the warm beat of his heart. His brow raises, are you good?

A shake of your head, you shiver at the new sense of chill in the air, skin reeling from its loss of warmth. “Cold,” you supply with a small shrug. Gone was the buoyant, cozy happiness from dinner and the after-dinner drinks hour. A brief reprieve from your sadness that seemed to follow you like a little storm cloud. 

He finished brushing his teeth, arm guiding you along as if you’re a marionette doll and he’s the puppeteer. Not that you mind, his warm hands skating up and down your arms absentmindedly. He tucks his chin on your head and sighs.

“How d’ya wanna do this, honey?”

Reaching behind you, you quickly shut off the tap, steam from the tub dampening your arm. Hooking your thumbs in along the waist of your leggings you push the black fabric downward, hips canting from one side to the other. You feel his quick intake of breath before you hear it, the air stuttering in his lungs.

Hips successfully freed from their confines, you grip his shoulders once more to stabilize yourself. His hands settle safely at your waist, mouth open in a pant. “What do I—“

“If you could just—“ you both speak at the same time. Huffs of laughter as you compose yourself, “I’m gonna fall over if I have to wrestle these off myself.”

He swallows drily, willing his gaze not to wander too far down. “Kay, so I just—“

You chuckle, guiding his hands to the rucked up fabric at the tops of your thighs. Your fingers weave through his, thumbs leading him to the thick band. “Hook your thumbs in and tug.”

He nods dumbly, giving a cursory pull at the lycra and nylon weave. You sway at the effort, uneasy on your feet, palms steadying themselves against his shoulders. 

Standing as stark still as you could, you watched silently as he descended to his knees on the tile. Head glancing back up to you while he rolls the leggings from your thighs.

The sight of Steve kneeling at your feet nearly steals your breath. 

He swallows thickly, trying desperately to look anywhere but right in front of him. It’s not like he hasn’t thought of you before in this way. He definitely has. Because he’s a grown man who's in control of his desires, he tries not to. But because he’s a man semi-living in close quarters living with a woman he’s attracted to, he can’t help it. 

It certainly doesn’t help that he’s close enough to smell you, see the damp patch of silk on your thong, near enough to taste it, if he wanted. He bites his cheek and focuses on the metallic tang of iron in his mouth. Distracts himself with thoughts of you – your friendship, your ever-present teasing with an edge of flirtation that causes the blood in his veins to rush. 

He’s too far down now for your hands to reach his shoulders comfortably, instead, your fingers glide through his strands of hair; he bites back a groan when your nails lightly graze his scalp, tugs the leggings further down, your knees knocking together at the effort. 

“Sorry, Stevie,” you rasp, as if every cell in your body is attuned to the way he responds.

The nickname that rolls off your tongue certainly is not helping, his jeans becoming tighter as he works the fabric from your legs. He’s not sure exactly when it happened — when the friendship turned into something more for him. Somewhere between the wet plush of your lips shivering against his after the Homecoming dance freshman year, and the ABC frat party in college, he’d realized that the way he felt about you was more than friends should.

In fact, it was borderline unfriendly.

You hiss as he drags the last bit of fabric down your calves and off your ankles; the joints pop softly as you roll them out. He chucks the leggings through the doorway and rises to his full height, your mouth is open and panting — pink and wet. 

“Thanks.”

He nods, eyes trained on yours, face coloring from the effort in the heat of the room. He brings a hand up to scratch the back of his neck, “No problem,” swallows the saliva collecting in his mouth. “I’ll let you uh—” he turns to leave.

Your hand reaches out for him, cool fingers against his forearm. “You’ll come back, yeah?” Voice but a whisper against the rushing of his blood, “When I’m settled?”

Steve curses his timing because when he turns to respond, he catches sight of your back as you lift the tank-top off. Skin dotted with beauty marks and the occasional scar, his eyes open wide. The soft curve of your breast against the cage of your ribs, the delicate slope of your waist and hips.

He has enough sense to turn away when you hook your thumbs into the band of your thong. But goddamn if it doesn’t pain him all the same. You fling the silk elsewhere and he hears the water give way as you step into the tub and slide down until the bubbles cover your form.

Casually pinning your hair up in an effort to not get it wet, some bits fall to your face and have gone wavy in the heat, curling up against your chin and cheeks. “Stevie?”

He thinks you look like some sort of Raphaelite muse.

“Come back for you?” He asks, repeating your earlier question as his back slides along the basin of the tub where he sits, sighing when your hand tangles in his hair, “Always.” 

[callioclops]

Woah, a pinned post

Figured I may as well start using Tumblr as an actual blog rather than a promotional tool for streaming that I no longer do and letting it just sit here and occasionally reblog something funny from my friends, so I'm making a introduction post.

Hi, I'm Calliope or Callie for short. I'm an autistic trans woman and I use she/her. My primary interests include structural analysis of TV and anime, and getting way too deep into the mechanics of various video games inevitably resulting in an attempt to flawlessly optimise whatever it is I'm meant to be doing. As you can imagine this draws me to roguelikes a lot, but also fighting games, RPGs, etc.

If you fall under any of these groups kindly fuck off: Homophobes, TERFs and other transphobes, and honestly just as a general catch-all if you harbour a hatred for any group of people for no reason besides their appearance or the way they refer to themselves.

Quick pre-emptive Q&A:

Why do you have anon asks turned off? - Simple answer is that I don't want anon hate. I think if you want to be mean to someone online you can at least have the courage to stand by what you said without hiding behind a circle with sunglasses. If you want to send an ask but don't want it to be public that it's you, put "[/p]" somewhere in the ask. If you aren't being hateful I'll respect your want to be anonymous. Obviously I'll still know but that's the best I can give.

What TV shows/anime do you usually talk about? - That's very dependant on what I'm watching at any given time. I'll try to keep this up to date (no promises) with what I'm currently interested in. At the time of writing (23/12/23) the two main ones are Rick & Morty and My Hero Academia. These two specifically I have heard are a turn off for a lot of people due to the fandoms, personally I don't really interact in that space.

What posts can I expect? - Probably not that many in all honesty. I'm writing this at 11pm and it's entirely possible that I'll just forget about this for weeks on end. But if I am to post it will likely be short rants about any of the above mentioned media. Either talks about specific episodes of a show or mechanical intricacies of video games. I like to imagine that it will be educational in a way that is completely incomprehensible in an academic capacity.

Why a cyclops? - Initially, I was attempting to 'transition' my online persona at the same time as I was transitioning in real life and wanted a pun or portmanteau based on my new name. Callioclops was the only one I could think of and I stuck with it. Over time though it really grew on me, I had design ideas for an icon (Thanks to @caeruluspirit for the profile image), I really just became engrossed in cyclopes and monocular creatures in general. I think part of this fascination also stems from an irl friend who has depth perception issues and once tried to explain it to me by saying "The sky is in front of the trees." I've been thining about that every so often ever since.

So yeah, I'm going to try and be a bit more active on here. Share a piece of my autism with a wider audience. If that interests you stick around, if not then by all means keep on moving.

[frankhightower]

Seriously considering Bluesky now

For a while now, I've been observing what I call the Twitter Exodus, watching the "goodbye" tweets to see what everyone is jumping to. Bluesky seems to be what most people have settled on (which I find hard to take seriously because... how can you just rip off the creators of Ice Age and get away with it? Threads at least had a somewhat original name!) Many people have pre-emptively identified their last straw as Twitter becoming a wholly paid service -- i.e.: tweet button becoming disabled because you haven't paid your membership fee. This happened yesterday in The Philippines and New Zealand, which I can only guess were chosen as guinea pigs for being a very poor and a very rich country, respectively. The stated reason: “It’s the only way I can think of to combat vast armies of bots,” says Musk. Not to again draw comparisons with Facebook, but when they rolled out a similar test trying to control disinformation during the 2016 election, they chose Mumbai and Westphalia, if memory serves; not whole countries! I had been reticent to jump on Bluesky because, as you can tell, I have trouble handling the social media accounts I already have! They all work slightly differently: on Twitter, replying to a tweet means the algorithm won't even bother with what you said; but Tumblr, reblogging to continue the thread-equivalent is just common courtesy; while on Instagram, there's just no such thing! FA has-built in prev and next buttons for this purpose while DA seems to expect you to create a new gallery for every storyline (but since they also don't allow gallery folders, practically no one does it!) Reddit wants self-contained posts that fit its subreddits (so linking to the last page in the series is a no-no, readers will just have to remember it) and no one uses Ko-fi as social media seriously. Not to mention that making my old art internet-ready (which is what I'm doing to bring my instagram "up to date") feels like a chore. But most of all, the crushing realization that Mastodon doesn't have Quote Retweets (or rather, that the servers that have them are few and far between) was horrible for me. At my last count, anything on Twitter gets buried after about 10 minutes, and people usually scroll through Twitter for about 30 at a time. My work around has been scheduled Quote Retweets 5 times a day (approximately the times most people are online). Not having it on Mastodon hasn't turned out to be that big a problem since Toots seem to "live" a few hours, like in Ye Olde Twitter. But I fear that, with all the people who say they've "moved to Bluesky", I'll have the same problem... but with no solution this time.

Posted using PostyBirb

[pink-squirrel]

Important thread worth sharing - also turning off reblogs out of respect for op.

[redratt]

I turned anon off pre emptively with that last reblog because every time I do that shit, I get like four anons saying lame shit in my inbox. If you're gonna call me names you're gonna do it with your face on coward

[symptoms-syndrome]

I'm too lazy to try and find sources to back this up, esp considering the state of pop psych about both of these things right now, but I could've sworn that like. Hyperfixation was primarily (but not exclusively) associated w ADHD, and was like. Isolated incidents vs special interest being primarily (but not exclusively) associated w autism and a longer term thing? And hyperfixations are widely varied but a SpIn would be more singular/limited?

Example being. A day where you spend 6 hours in a Wikipedia hole reading about welding despite not having previous interest in it but being intently focused (even tho u might never be interested in welding again) would be a hyperfixation. And being primarily/solely interested in like. Fabrics and learning all about the manufacture and materials and history n shit since you were like 10 would be a special interest.

Like words are fake n everything and I think there's flexibility in what I just described but also I feel like these are both just being watered down to mean "interest" or "passion." Like I'm being a judgemental asshole here but I don't think 15 diff fandoms can ALL be a special interest/hyperfixation nor do I think something you're into for like. A week would be considered a special interest. Like I think some of y'all are just fandom nerds and like things and that's like. Literally fine like I can also be a fandom nerd and also like things. I think it's a square:rectangle type thing sometimes.

IDK this is speculation but I think some people are either thinking they have to label something as a hyperfixation/SpIn to validate their belief in their autism/ADHD and/or thinking that being interested in something or passionate about something means you have autism/ADHD. IIRC I don't even think you need to have circumscribed interests to have autism/ADHD I think they're just a v common thing.

Bc sometimes I'm looking at what ppl are talking about re:these two things and I'm like. Are we talking about the same thing here.

[veeranger]

i really wish popular indie vtubers would get better fucking material than really low hanging fruit sex jokes on twitter. it’s driving me crazy. i’ve unfollowed like all of them because i can’t fucking take it anymore.

[viewmonster-deactivated20230122]

i gotta learn to stop making posts on here publicly complaining about the way people act on this site because sooner or later some asshole finds it and reblogs it making fun of me starting a chain reaction of more assholes making fun of me