#am i back? not really

[haztory]

sorry for being absent literally always, but i had to get this out of my drafts.

goddess!reader x mortal!bakugou; warnings: blood, mentions of sex, murder, unhappy relationships, unhinged reader and bakugou (tiny bit), not beta’d

(w.c. 2.1k)

Rapacious, your father would call you were he to see you now. Salacious, acting in behavior once thought deterred; The kind that he meant to have stamped out of you in an effort to cultivate you into the pious cog in of his senseless grandeur. His promise of destiny. 

Your father’s lips would be turned in that virtuous frown, eyes narrowed as he sat from his throne in the great pantheon of Gods. Validated by their fealty. The model figure that is woefully negligent as he speaks of the sanctity of commandments that have seen his betrayal one too many times before. Sanctimonious in his rectitude, righteous in his hypocrisy, your father is.

He meant to cage you, raging at your freedom and its significance—angry that you were wild, changing the tides of human wars with the gentlest of smiles and lulling whispers; Rampaging that fellow Gods, his own brothers, were victim to the whims of your games with the mortals; Furious that the power you wielded began to rival that of his own; Murderous that you were too much like him: untamed, greedy, victorious and still, adored. 

You have never known his anger to be long-lasting, especially not in a manner of great meaning when you could falsely promise your way out of it. Batting eyelashes in truce—but, this is beyond punishment for the defiance of a rule. He means to break you. 

A husband. 

One bound to you without your consultation, much less knowledge. Promised in hand and divinity to be half of a whole to this pitiful excuse of God. 

There was hardly an expectation of satisfaction within the marriage on a good day, much less pleasure in the ways that physically mattered; Could such a thing ever truly be expected from a man who only knew how to hammer metal? Up, down, up, down until the glowing steel was forged.

Your husband is a man of great fortitude, who knows and will only know that of the fire he works with. The flames reflected in the dullness of his irises being the only exciting thing about him. He is monotonous within his construction. Routined and boring. 

How could there ever be the expectation of fidelity from you, the Goddess of Love? 

How could you be shackled to the bedside of a man who has never known the strength of the sea from which you are born? How can you love a man who does not know the impact of the tide and draws no desire from its power? How can you be with a man who does not know and adore you as you are? For a millenia, nonetheless! 

You've come to know of this arrangement as a curse; A woeful attempt to tame you from the wild and lustful by forcing you to make acquaintance with the bland and boring. Binding you to the shore, never to make acquaintance with the push and pull of the forceful nature. 

Credit must be paid your way. You had tried. In the depths of shame and sorrow, you tried to do as your brothers and sisters and settle. Gave in and let yourself  believe that love and happiness could be found within routine, eventually. It is your novelty, after all. And yet, it still finds you. This yearning for more, the urge to love and be loved. Your nature still rises from the swaying tide and dares to edge the coast. 

Your father would not approve were he to see you now, watching from your high plane in the heavens to the happenings of the mortal world. Surely, your husband would violently disapprove too, convinced that he has you loyal. 

You shouldn’t fixate; Had promised in low lights and empty words in your husband’s grimy embrace that you have seen the errors of your ways; That you have and will change. For his sake. But he does not know what happens when he is away in his cave of brimstone. 

Your attention is caught. And the object of your fascination is a marvel.

Sculpted from clay himself, you have half a mind to believe that one of your siblings has had a part in his creation. Broad and muscular, sharp and angular in all the places that deem him a man. This mortal has caught your eye since his ascension from boy to man. He is a village soldier. Fiercely protective and eager for a fight, and yet always looking to the heavens. As though there was something there waiting for him, beckoning him closer. You suppose he isn’t wrong, as you peer down to him just as he looks up. 

There have been whispers of his fate amongst the crowds since he was a boy, certainty issued in his great destiny.  No one is more sure of it than he. 

Which may be what finds him in your temple. 

Sanctuaries have never known themselves to be exclusive, but you must admit that it is certainly strange to have a man of his designation pray to the Goddess of Love. Surely he must have found some alignment more towards that of your stoic sister, emboldened by the desire for courage and brawn. And yet he is here, treading the halls in the stillness of night and giving small offerings to each of your priestesses and holding one large offering basket for your statue.

He stands beneath the colonnade, staring pensively at the intricate designs of your image on marble. He speaks only when the room has been cleared, the priestesses giving him the space to pray in solace.

“I hear you.” His timbre is gruff yet smooth. Commanding as it echoes. “You are calling to me.”

You remain still, almost taken aback at his forwardness. The waves of temptation creep at your feet. 

“I intend to find you, whether you show yourself or not.” He speaks again. He looks up, and although you know it improbable, you swear eyes of vermillion have pinpointed your location in the sky. And so, it comes crashing.

It has been so long since you have last appeared before a mortal, and appearing before him transcends all relatability. To see the fixation, your desire, and to have him see you. If he is surprised by your arrival, he doesn’t show it. Eyes strong in their stoic gaze, lips almost curled in a sneer. One would think you were his enemy, but you know such a charge to be false. It’s a charge of electricity, the cooling nighttime air suddenly warming at the meeting of your gaze. 

He is no enemy to you, and you are certainly no stranger to him.

“No one has ever commanded me so directly. How did you know?” You ask. of genuine curiosity.

“I dream of you.” He says the answer so plainly, as though it were a common occurrence. You can’t help but raise a brow. 

“Oh?” 

“I have for years. It was only a matter of time before you showed yourself.”

The chains forged by your husband suddenly feel the lightest that they have ever felt. Metal rattling against each other, pushing and pulling as something brews within you. You wonder what this mortal thinks of you. If he finds you as beautiful as you find him; If the power within him is as strong as you think it is. 

If he is strong enough to cut through steel.

“And what did you dream of?” You ask, taking a step forward. Feeling elation fill you like the swirling breeze as his eyes quickly watch you step forward.

“Tch. Like you don’t know.” His jaw flexes and with it comes the bloom of a subtle blush on his cheeks. “Didn’t you plant the damn things?” 

No, you didn’t. You could certainly look to see what it is he dreamed of, but this is more fun. Finally, finally, you feel the remnants of yourself pulse alive. 

“Have you come to give me a greater purpose?” He asks quickly, in diversion. You let him, too satisfied with the newfound freedom to care much about his attempt at modesty. 

You step closer to him, watching as his eyes cascade down the sheer chiton adorning your body. “Is that what I did in your dreams? Fill you with purpose?”

You find yourself almost chest to chest with him, his eyes never leaving yours, “Or did you fill me?”

You laugh when his eyes widen, turning to take a chocolate from the offering basket held still in his hands and plopping it into your mouth. Marveling at its taste, deciding that it must be homemade.  “Is that what you are in search for? A greater purpose? How about a culinary artist? Your skills are impeccable.”

He doesn’t laugh. “I am destined for more.” 

He knows he is. You know he is. Have not eyed him for so long to have not known. He stands firm before you, a soldier waiting for instruction. In any other instance you would rebuke such a stand, revolt at the rigid and serious, and yet with him—

Well, in devotion to you, who can fault you for testing its limits? Especially when there is something that has sat within you, waiting for the opportune moment. 

You meet his gaze, deciding to no longer tease. “How much more?”

“Anything you will give me.” He quickly responds. 

“And this destiny you seek, do you do it for pride or service?”

“I am your loyal follower and patron, Goddess Divine. What I do is for you.”

“A man like you, patron to me. How lucky am I?” You smile, but it is quickly assumed by the sneaking tendrils of your dark desire. Your voice stills, “The task I have for you is very arduous. Unyielding, difficult, and not aimed for the weak. Destiny setting, to be sure.”

The man seems to preen at those words, a smile finally finding its way to his face. It curls, dangerously, hungrily. “Name it.”

“Once it is spoken, it cannot be undone.” You warn.

“The task is mine alone.” He insists.

You find yourself before him again, and he leans in to listen closely. You can sense the fight in him, smell his musk. The promised freedom teeters on the edge of your words. 

“...kill Hephaestus. Free me from the shackles of my constricting punishment.”

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t balk, doesn’t shy away from the treasonous words. He does as you have seen him do and stands firm, almost vibrates with his desire to act. 

You can almost feel the brush of the sea on your skin again. 

“And my reward?” He asks, confidently.

“Is my eternal patronage and favor not enough?” You laugh, eased in his presence rather than tight at the admittance of your evil. Circling around him, you drag your finger across the broadness of his bare and unmarred shoulders. You wonder if the purity of his skin is a reflection of his valiance. Wonder if your desires are steered correctly, that he is the one to have the strength to carry him to victory. 

He glances to you over his shoulder, “Surely, the Goddess has more in plan for the man set to kill her husband than bragging rights?”

Curiosity clouded with the tendrils of lust at the man who holds your fate in his hands, you place your chin on his shoulder, meeting his vermillion gaze as your nose scarcely brushes the smooth expanse of his sculptured chin. Intimacy with a man who isn’t your husband, intimacy that is natural and wanted rather than forced.

“Cheeky.” You murmur, and his grin widens. A veil of clouded air blurs his vision before you reappear in front of him, your weight placed onto him as you wrap your arms around his neck. 

“Bring me the head of my oppressor,” You begin, said so airily it could be mistaken as a light conversation rather than a plot for murder, “And I will make you a God in his place. Meant to enact your own destiny, made to rule beside me.”

You lean your forehead closer, meeting him as your noses brush in meeting. Tracing one another, you whisper, “Can you do it?”

Without hesitation, he breathes into you. “I am yours, Goddess Divine.”

“And your name, O Great Warrior?”

“Bakugou.” A storm brews mightily in his irises and you can taste the salt of the spray, feel the ocean beckoning you home. 

Your release from the cage is so close to the touch, the hilt of the sword dealing the victory blow to your freedom held by him. 

You smile, wide, and true, and lustful for blood. “A fitting name for a God.” 

It comes as no great surprise when the mortal appears at your temple a few weeks later. He is limping through marbled halls and dripping with blood, the key to your cage held in his hands. Your husband's severed head held by his bloodied and mangled fingers, a wicked smile on his face as he beckons you down from the heavens. You find yourself once again, marveling.

And finally, in love.

[punkitt-is-here]

dipper is a weirdly special kind of character to me because I was that type of kid, the one who wanted to grow up too fast and got irritated at their sibling not taking things too seriously and never wanting to seem childlike. i connected heavily with him, and honestly the entire arc of Gravity Falls being in part about him learning to just be a kid really helped me in the long run. it was a great wake up call seeing a character so similar to me at that age learn to finally stop trying to be an adult before i was ready.

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

How Bill was defeated and captured by Ford in my Gf AU! He basically just tricked Bill into accepting a deal that trapped him within Ford's mind and under his control :]

He may have gotten a little out of hand though....

>:)

Next post :]

[endusviolence]

Rowling isn't denying holocaust. She just pointed out that burning of transgender health books is a lie as that form of cosmetic surgery didn't exist. But of course you knew that already, didn't you?

I was thinking I'd probably see one of you! You're wrong :) Let's review the history a bit, shall we?

In this case, what we're talking about is the Institut für Sexualwissenschaft, or in English, The Institute of Sexology. This Institute was founded and headed by a gay Jewish sexologist named Magnus Hirschfeld. It was founded in July of 1919 as the first sexology research clinic in the world, and was run as a private, non-profit clinic. Hirschfeld and the researchers who worked there would give out consultations, medical advice, and even treatments for free to their poorer clientele, as well as give thousands of lectures and build a unique library full of books on gender, sexuality, and eroticism. Of course, being a gay man, Hirschfeld focused a lot on the gay community and proving that homosexuality was natural and could not be "cured".

Hirschfeld was unique in his time because he believed that nobody's gender was either one or the other. Rather, he contended that everyone is a mixture of both male and female, with every individual having their own unique mix of traits.

This leads into the Institute's work with transgender patients. Hirschfeld was actually the one to coin the term "transsexual" in 1923, though this word didn't become popular phrasing until 30 years later when Harry Benjamin began expanding his research (I'll just be shortening it to trans for this brief overview.) For the Institute, their revolutionary work with gay men eventually began to attract other members of the LGBTA+, including of course trans people.

Contrary to what Anon says, sex reassignment surgery was first tested in 1912. It'd already being used on humans throughout Europe during the 1920's by the time a doctor at the Institute named Ludwig Levy-Lenz began performing it on patients in 1931. Hirschfeld was at first opposed, but he came around quickly because it lowered the rate of suicide among their trans patients. Not only was reassignment performed at the Institute, but both facial feminization and facial masculization surgery were also done.

The Institute employed some of these patients, gave them therapy to help with other issues, even gave some of the mentioned surgeries for free to this who could not afford it! They spoke out on their behalf to the public, even getting Berlin police to help them create "transvestite passes" to allow people to dress however they wanted without the threat of being arrested. They worked together to fight the law, including trying to strike down Paragraph 175, which made it illegal to be homosexual. The picture below is from their holiday party, Magnus Hirschfeld being the gentleman on the right with the fabulous mustache. Many of the other people in this photo are transgender.

[Image ID: A black and white photo of a group of people. Some are smiling at the camera, others have serious expressions. Either way, they all seem to be happy. On the right side, an older gentleman in glasses- Magnus Hirschfeld- is sitting. He has short hair and a bushy mustache. He is resting one hand on the shoulder of the person in front of him. His other hand is being held by a person to his left. Another person to his right is holding his shoulder.]

There was always push back against the Institute, especially from conservatives who saw all of this as a bad thing. But conservatism can't stop progress without destroying it. They weren't willing to go that far for a good while. It all ended in March of 1933, when a new Chancellor was elected. The Nazis did not like homosexuals for several reasons. Chief among them, we break the boundaries of "normal" society. Shortly after the election, on May 6th, the book burnings began. The Jewish, gay, and obviously liberal Magnus Hirschfeld and his library of boundary-breaking literature was one of the very first targets. Thankfully, Hirschfeld was spared by virtue of being in Paris at the time (he would die in 1935, before the Nazis were able to invade France). His library wasn't so lucky.

This famous picture of the book burnings was taken after the Institute of Sexology had been raided. That's their books. Literature on so much about sexuality, eroticism, and gender, yes including their new work on trans people. This is the trans community's Alexandria. We're incredibly lucky that enough of it survived for Harry Benjamin and everyone who came after him was able to build on the Institute's work.

[Image ID: A black and white photo of the May Nazi book burning of the Institute of Sexology's library. A soldier, back facing the camera, is throwing a stack of books into the fire. In the background of the right side, a crowd is watching.]

As the Holocaust went on, the homosexuals of Germany became a targeted group. This did include transgender people, no matter what you say. To deny this reality is Holocaust denial. JK Rowling and everyone else who tries to pretend like this isn't reality is participating in that evil. You're agreeing with the Nazis.

But of course, you knew that already, didn't you?

Edit: Added image IDs. I apologize to those using screen readers for forgetting them. Please reblog this version instead.

[typona]

I couldn't get this scene out of my head after reading the book!

[hinamie]

surprise it's yuri!!!in 2024

[paintedcrows]

Every day is harder, sanity seems farther

[inquisitor-apologist]

Ok I’m being so brave about it but a couple of days ago I saw this post claiming that the Jedi saying ‘this weapon [your lightsaber] is your life’ is emblematic of ‘the Jedi’s failure as peacekeepers’ (not an exact quote but pretty close) because why would a weapon be the life of a peacekeeper?

And like. The Jedi are a culture. They’re a religion.

You know that, right? You know that many cultures, including generally peaceful ones, have sacred weapons, right? You know that the bond between a Jedi and their crystal(s) is an extremely sacred thing that requires the consent of both parties and is integral to their way of life, right?

You know that lightsabers are not intended to be only for killing, right? That the first thing Luke learns to do with his lightsaber is to shield and defend? You know that a culture having sacred weapons doesn’t mean that they view killing as sacred, right?

Not trying to start shit, I don’t even remember who said it, but ugh

[starry-bi-sky]

I am loudly pushing the batdad agenda i am loudly pushing the— DPxDC Prompt

“Woah. You look like shit."

Granted, that’s probably not the first thing Danny should be saying to the guy that just bit the curb, but in his defense; he’s not running on 100% right now either.

The man -- tall, towering, and broader than Danny is tall -- whips around on his heel, black frayed cape flaring out impressively. Danny would've whistled in appreciation, but he takes the time instead to wipe the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood running from his nose across his cheek.

"Sorry." He blinks widely, not even flinching as the man with the horns zeroes in on him. "That was rude of me. I have a really bad brain-to-mouth filter; Sam says its what always gets me into trouble."

And she's not wrong either, per say. His smart mouth is what landed him in this situation -- with blood blossom extract running through his veins and cannibalizing the ectoplasm in his bloodstream. Thanks Vlad.

The man grunts at him; a short, curt "hm" that shouldn't make Danny smile, but he does because he's somewhat delirious and probably concussed. The man keeps some kind of distance, sinking towards the shadows of Gotham's alleyway like he dares to melt right into it.

If it's supposed to scare Danny, it doesn't work. Danny's never been afraid of the dark; he's always been able to hide himself in it. He blinks slowly at the mass of shadows.

"You look hurt." The shadows says, blurring together around the edges. Danny squints, and licks his lips to get the blood dripping down his chin off. Ugh, he hates the taste of blood.

"I am." He says, "My godfather poisoned me. M'dying." The agony of the blood blossom eating him from the inside out looped back around to numbing a while ago, so all he feels is half-awake and dazed.

"Hey," Danny stumbles forward towards the man, a bloodied hand reaching out to him. "You-- you're a hero, right? You're not attacking me; which is more than I can say for most costumed people I've met." Maybe it's a poor bar to judge someone at, but he's already established that Danny's not in his right mind.

The man makes no change in expression, but Danny realizes blearily that it's hard to tell with the shadows on his face. He stays still long enough for Danny to latch onto the cape -- stretchy, but almost soft under his fingers.

He looks up blearily into the whites of the man's eyes. "Can you help me? I don't-- I don't wanna die." Again. He doesn't wanna die again. He blinks slow and lizard-like. "I mean- I'll probably get to see mom and dad again, but I told them I'd at least try and make it to adulthood."

There's a clatter down the street, and Danny's ghost sense chills up his spine and leaves a bitter, ashy taste in his mouth. He immediately knows who it belongs to even before the deceptively gentle; "Daniel?" echoes down the way.

"Daniel? Quit your games, badger, Gotham is dangerous for children."

Danny's mouth pulls back, and blood spills against his tongue. "Please." He rasps, and grabs onto the shadow's cape with both hands. "Please. He's going to kill me. Please--"

"Daniel? Is that you?"

His lips part, dragging in air to plead with the darkness again. He doesn't need to, the whites of his eyes narrow, and the cape whirls around him before Danny can blink. Soon swaddled in shadows, the Night lifts him up, and steals him away.

[curioscurio]

I'm rewatching Steven Universe and I will never forgive Fandom for what it did to her

[sticksandsharks]

congratulations to the newly wed couple

thank you to everyone who has not only purchased the comic, but also had kind words to say in tags and through asks!! I am away for holiday for most of this month, and I have been/will be largely offline on account of this*-- but please know that my heart is incredibly full to know people like this story!!

(*any posts that go up here have been scheduled before I left)

A few recurring questions I'll answer here real quick:

Will Sacred Bodies have a physical print? Yes! I would like to self-publish this book after the fair is concluded and sell it at conventions and through my online store.

What are the Ba'It based off of? Their body/limb plan is based on pteradons!! with some bat and bird anatomy thrown in. Garaang are semi-bipedal so that makes the silhouette even weirder, but you see some quadrupedal stances in the comic and it might make more sense then. I don't want to post or talk too much about some of the minutae of their design, as it is part of the story itself. :}

What medium did you use for the comic? It's all digital; I used Clip Studio Paint to draw the entire thing. I use the base watercolour and design pencil brushes that come with the programme. How long did it take you to make the comic? It's a little hard to estimate-- initial ideas, visdev and writing drafts were intermitent at the start of the year; once I landed on the story, finalising the script would've taken no longer than a week of recurring writing and editing. It's the actual drawing that takes forever, unfortunately. I started thumbnailing around April, and pencilling, colours and painting were a 10-11 hour work-day commitment for most of June and July. (I lost a lot of work-time in May cause I fell ill, womp womp). I'd probably say it was 4 - 5 months of labour. Are you going to write more stories in this world? I would really like to! I have a lot of ideas rattling in my head for the Valley of the World-- the place that the folk of the Spire have escaped. That being said, I have a whole graphic novel to finish first! It has been pushed back on account (but not exclusively because) of me working on my SBCF entries the last couple years, and I don't want to neglect it any further!! (it's 350+ full colour pages though so it was always going to be a huge undertaking)

Thank you again for the outpouring of enthusiasm and support; it means the world!

[froggydraws]

y'all send my girl marinette your thoughts and prayers 😔🙏

[lazylittledragon]

taking all my american followers by the shoulders. listen to me. just because you have a more promising candidate now doesn't mean you just assume it's going to be fine and don't bother voting. assuming trump wasn't going to win is how you got here in the first place so you go out and fucking vote for harris and give everyone a fighting chance.

also if you're still in the 'they're both as bad as eachother' delirium, please take your head out from between your cheeks and consider that your options are an imperfect president and the literal worst person alive who is going to get masses of people killed. i've said it like this before, but it's like deciding between maybe getting food poisoning or definitely having a brain aneurysm. take your pick i guess but don't be surprised when you drop dead.

[courfee]

the complimentary james to this regulus

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

I've never been more normal in my life.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[sp0o0kylights]

Grass is green, water is wet, and Jonathan Byers does not like Steve Harrington.

These are known facts in the universe.

Computers were going to take over the world, a “mobile” phone was being invented, and Steve Harrington had lost most of his hearing.

These were unknown facts--rumors even, if you will. Eddie had never seen even a grain of truth to support any of them. 

(Well, maybe the computer thing, but only because Grant and Dustin both had made a couple of convincing arguments.) 

So he doesn’t think about it, when his freshman gang up on him. 

Doesn’t even factor the “can’t hear well” thing in, when he was tasked (demanded, whined, bitched and moaned at) with helping them explain to Steve why going to the release party of the new D&D box set, located at a hobby store only a mere 2 hour drive away, was important.

Eddie’s not even sure how the little shits got him to agree to do it until he’s standing in the parking lot in front of the former King himself. 

“The store’s leading up to the release with a handful of one-shots.” He’s explaining, unsure whether to pull out the bored act or play up his court jester persona, and thus mixing and matching on the fly. 

He does not care if Harrington doesn’t know what a one-shot is. 

“They’re releasing the set at midnight. You have to be there to get it though, you can’t have someone else pick it up for you because they only got a certain amount in.” 

Harrington’s frowning (no surprise) but it’s not until Eddie is well into his spiel about how his van is already full with the elder members of Hellfire, and thus has no room for the freshmen, that he realizes Steve isn’t quite looking at him. 

Is in fact, looking over his shoulder.

Eddie stops. Follows Harrington’s gaze.

Parked across from Steve’s Beemer, is Jonathan Byer’s barely working clunker car. 

A handful of steps in front of it, and thus nearly right behind Eddie, is the man himself.

His hands are still moving, mouth shaping words silent as he goes, his gaze locked not on Eddie or the kids--but on Steve. 

Who turns back around as Harrington’s eyes slide right back to him. 

“And this is taking place next Friday?” He says, in that sort of annoyed but resigned way parents aim at their children. “After school?” 

“I’d like to go during  school, but the freshmen insist you wouldn’t let them ditch out.” Eddie tells him. “They had two separate arguments about it.” 

Loud ones, that had interrupted the game and given Eddie a migraine. 

Once again Steve’s eyes slide away from him, to Jonathan. 

“They’re not skipping school.” He says suddenly, a glare forming and Jonathan makes an annoyed noise. 

“They argued about skipping, they’re not going to.” He says aloud, and finally steps up so that he’s next to Eddie instead of behind him. 

“Munson slow down, I can’t sign as fast as you’re talking.” He adds, in the hang-dog grumble he’s notorious for. 

Eddie stares at him. 

“Can he seriously not hear me?” 

“No.” Steve and Jonathan answer together. 

“I can kind of still hear,” Steve adds, gaze returning to Eddie’s face. “But its more loud music or noises. I can lip read, but you’re also talking too fast for that.” 

Without pausing, he turns back to Jonathan and says; “Why can’t you take them?”

“It’s Friday.” Byers deadpans. 

Eddie’s not an expert on sign language, but his hands somehow looked deadpan too. 

He’s not sure how Jonathan did that. 

“So?” Steve snarks back. 

What follows is an argument that Eddie is not, at all involved in, mostly because he’s too busy handling the fact that Jonathan Byers has learned sign language, for Steve Harrington, apparently, and given the tone the argument is taking they still don’t even like each other.  

Eventually the argument ends, Steve throwing his hands in the air and demanding that Jonathan owes him. 

(Eventually Eddie will corner the ever so quiet Will Byers and ask why the hell his brother learned sign language for someone he clearly fucking hates.

“Oh they don’t hate each other.” Baby Byers would say, in that shy, quiet way of his. “I think they’re actually friends now?” 

“You think?”

“Well--you’ve seen them.” Will shrugs. “I think being mean to each other is kinda their thing.” 

‘What the hell.’ Eddie would think, right up until he stumbled across one of the kids sign language books. 

Byers the Elder, he decides, isn’t the only person who should learn sign language to chew out Harrington properly.

The pay off is immediate. 

Or at least, the pay off of watching Steve’s shocked face the first time Eddie signs something vulgar at him is, anyway.)