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eightstarr · 1 month ago

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at the count of three — ellie williams.

summary: how do you tell your best friend you’re in love with them? ellie has an answer! just be cool and wait for the right moment— and the next. and maybe another one, just to be sure. if you get impatient, you can always take a deep breath and count to three! (years, that is)

warnings: slow burn (childhood friends to lovers <3), little bit suggestive but no smut!

notes: born from a piece of dialogue i wrote like, a year ago and completely forgot about but somehow a week later it's 4k words? idk you're welcome or i'm sorry!!! also yes they do spend almost every scene sitting together on a couch but that's what lesbianism is all about...

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・。.・゜✧・. ────

ONE!

A movie plays on the TV, a slightly tarnished DVD of an 80’s action flick starring some oily guy and the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen— Ellie doesn't remember much other than an obnoxiously epic soundtrack and lingering shots that made the plot twist too obvious about 20 minutes in.

She's freshly eighteen; you’re ahead only by a couple months. It's a warm Friday night, Joel and your dad in the kitchen putting scraps together for a mildly healthy dinner, Ellie sitting on the very opposite side of the couch from where you are. It’s hot, she'd said, looking away from your comically insulted face that grew with every scooch she made from your side, a lame excuse to save her from the newly found (and fucking torturous) fluttering that sparks in her stomach whenever she sits too close to you.

From the kitchen comes the sound of a can hitting the floor, followed by Joel’s 'shit!' and then quickly, 'sorry, girls'. You chuckle, turning to Ellie and catching her staring at you. A wrinkle forms between your eyebrows at the same time a pink warmth floods her cheeks. “Dude, you’re not even paying attention.”

“I am,” a scoff, her eyes now strictly committed to the screen. “The noise distracted me,” she adds, knowing it didn't even make her flinch from the careful study of your side profile.

“Scaredy cat— ow!” a pillow crashes against your cheek, sudden enough to shock you, too soft to do any real damage. “What the fuck?”

Ellie raises her eyebrows and looks at you from the corner of her eyes, a smirk half hidden by her hand. “Don’t be rude, you're missing the best scene.”

You throw the pillow back and scoff when she catches it, your lips slightly pursed, the signature sign to tell you’re annoyed. It's almost identical to the replica of that gesture that sits at the end of her last journal entry, an overly dedicated sketch born from a wandering thought. She could make it more accurate, she thinks now, soften the line of your jaw, take the scar on your cheek a little more to the left.

The sound of water splashing from the TV catches her attention and Ellie snaps her head forward (lest she get caught staring again), just as the blonde haired love interest is walking out of a fancy looking swimming pool.

“She’s hot,�� you say, fingers pulling absentmindedly at loose threads on the rip of your jeans. When Ellie doesn't say anything, you turn to look at her, “You don't think so?”

Her voice comes out a higher pitch than she’d like. “What—” she clears her throat before continuing to mumble, “I don't know, I guess.”

You laugh. “You guess?”

“Yeah, I— I don't know, dude, I wasn't thinking about that.”

You watch the nervousness on her face, the gulp that passes her throat, the red under her freckles. Fondness tugs at your chest and your voice softens just slightly, a smile playing on your lips. “Oh my God. Ellie, it’s okay,” green eyes find your face and she sees you hesitate for a second before you shrug. “Who cares? It's just me.”

You make it sound easy. It's the most distinct thing Ellie remembers about this moment, how suddenly safety felt like the most obvious thing. TV light on your face, your arm over the back of the couch, the same eyes she's been looking at since she was fourteen. Of course it's okay. Everything else with you is easy, why wouldn't this be the same?

Ellie shifts on the couch, the distance between you turning quickly ridiculous— offensive, even. She’s embarrassed to have let her flusteredness get in the way, but the urge to be closer doesn't feel right either. Everything she does feels like too much, everything she says too intense. “How long have you known?” she asks.

You tilt your head, less of a question and more of a guidance, “Known that you…”

Ellie parts her lips, unsure of whether or not she’s gonna say it or how, trying to will the words to come out. And they do, she remembers it well, because it was the first and maybe the only time she was this direct about it. “That I like girls.”

The smile on your face is teeth-rotting sweet, but she only gets to bask in it for a second before you widen your eyes and lower your voice to a scandalized whisper. “You what?”

Ellie rolls her eyes, cheeks burning, “Oh, fuck you.”

Your laugh fills up the room and the fluttering in her stomach feels absurd at this point, like she would actually be able to feel those annoying little butterflies flying around if she were to press her hand against her abdomen. “Sorry, sorry,” you say, and for a terrifying second Ellie thinks maybe they're loud too, and you’re able to hear them. But then she looks at you and forgets about it, easy easy easy. “It’s really okay. You know that, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says. For once, there's not a glimpse of doubt about it to be found.

You watch another ten minutes of the movie in silence before your dad's head peeks out from the kitchen to call you both to the table for dinner.

Ellie has a habit of eating like it's her last day on earth. When you were both new residents of Jackson, hungry and scared and not at all used to the idea of a full plate of food twice a day, she couldn't help it. And you were the same, hence why your dad thought it would be good for you and Ellie to spend time together, which quickly turned to being around each other basically every minute of every day. But as the weeks passed, you seemed to be learning to adapt faster. A younger Ellie found this frustrating— especially after that time Joel complimented your table manners.

You’re just… nicer, she remembers saying, a stressed frown on her still childlike face, fiddling with a box of marbles she’d found under her new bed. She remembers how you pulled one out, your fingers brushing against her own for the first time ever, and held the clear crystal with green stripes next to her eyes, a satisfied smile at a practically perfect match. You’re nice too, Els, you’d said, shrugging your shoulders, the marble shoved inside your pocket, I think I just lie better.

Until that moment, Ellie had never thought about it that way; the fact that you could be pretending to feel more confident and comfortable than you really are to make yourself safer, to get people to like you. But when she asked, you swore you had never lied to Ellie. She used to drive herself mad thinking about that, a strange, confusing worry gnawing at her chest— she likes that you don't feel the need to lie, but what does it say about how you see her? Is it that you don't care if she likes you? Or worse, is it that you know that she already does?

You sit in front of her today at the same dinner table, four years later, and watch her practically inhale her bowl of pasta like no time has passed at all. You let out a snort and Ellie wonders if you can see it even now, if her constant thoughts of you are obvious even when she looks this busy.

"What?" she asks, an immediate frown on her face, though she's done you the honor of swallowing her mouthful before speaking.

"You're so gross," you say, chin resting on your palm, tilting your head like you're looking at some thought provoking art piece. Ellie thinks you'll leave it at that, but then you reach over and swipe your thumb over the red spot of sauce next to the corner of her lips, so soft she barely feels it. You watch her frown soften for a second before it becomes even deeper.

Ellie feels like her whole body is exploding with warmth, too hot under the hoodie she's wearing, too pink across her face. It's so obvious, she thinks, it's so— fuck, pull it together. Her gaze follows your finger as you bring it to your lips and lick off the sauce. “You’re disgusting,” she retorts lamely, her hand rough when she brushes it over her mouth, lest you notice another stain and she has to watch you do that again.

You are familiarly not deterred by her meanness. Or her attempt at it. "And you eat like a five year old,” you shrug. “I guess we both have our issues."

Ellie catches herself staring at your hands for the rest of the meal, certain that she's never noticed them in the same way before. How much time has she been wasting? You both have your issues, you'd said, but Ellie thinks she has you beat. Yours can't possibly be anywhere near this dangerous.

─────✧･ﾟ: *✧･

TWO!

Someone's knocking on her door. Ellie sniffles and lets out a groan as she gets up from the couch, sore throat, her limbs heavy and tired. She knows it's you because it's always the same three knocks; the first two firm and loud, a pause, and then one tiny one that sounds almost like 'sorry'. You’re impatient but still painfully afraid to be rude— if she loved you a little less, Ellie thinks she would make fun of it a lot more. But alas, she's cursed to smile at it every time.

She opens the door and the breeze that slips in makes her fall immediately into an embarrassing coughing fit. “It’s fine,” she mutters, at the same time you’re saying jesus christ, Ellie. “Shit. I’m okay,” she clears her throat and finally gets a moment to look at you, all pretty and put together in your best shirt and a freshly showered scent, the sun setting behind you like a perfect frame. Ellie prays her lungs don't betray her again and tries to make the brush of her hand over her messy hair look casual instead of desperate.

“Well, I was gonna ask if you wanted to come to the party with me for just a few minutes, but… I’m not sure you should be out of bed,” your worried frown is pretty, too. What a cruel fate. “Is Joel home? I can stay—”

“No, no, you’re good,” Ellie shakes her head, arms crossed over her chest like maybe it’ll cover up enough and you won't notice she was wearing the same long sleeve the last time you saw her. “He’ll be here in like, five minutes. I’ll be fine, ’m not a baby.”

You’re both nineteen by this time, Ellie remembers because you wore the same pretty blue shirt that you're wearing now for her birthday, and it was the day she realized her crush was no longer deniable. It's easier to act like nothing’s happening when she feels like she's alone in it, like there's no universe where you could love her like she loves you so she might as well let the fantasy die— but then you put on your shirt that's reserved for special occasions just to come over and bring her the cupcake you made, and suddenly Ellie can picture herself with her hands on each side of your waist, pulling you close, saying thank you with her lips brushing against yours before she kisses you. She can see it so clearly that it startles her, changes everything. Her birthday comes with a punch to the gut and a hunger she wants to tell you and only you about.

“You’re not gonna be bored? I really don't mind staying until he gets home.”

Ellie thinks (dramatically, extremely nineteen—) that if she lets you take care of her, she might actually die. It felt like she almost did last time you visited, your face serious with concentration as you pressed the back of your hand against her forehead. ‘You're warm’, you said, ‘do you feel sweaty?’ Ellie stared up at you, eyes glossy and heavy from sleep. ‘Not really’, her fingers sneaked out from under the blanket to wrap themselves around your forearm, a moment of bravery or delusion, ‘your hand feels nice’. You chuckled, ‘okay, keep it’.

She’s less feverish today, but not yet recovered from the greedy voice in her head that begs her to keep you close. If you don't go to the party now, she thinks (knows) that she’ll let herself casually talk you into staying the rest of the night. “Nah, don't miss your party,” she says. “I’ll be okay, Joel’s gonna teach me how to play that old card game.”

You raise your eyebrows. “So you're gonna argue all night.”

“No— what?” Ellie scoffs. “It’ll be good, I learn fast.”

“Yeah, because you make up your own rules.”

“I have questions about the rules, that's not the same thing.”

“It is if you cheat—”

“I’m not a cheater!”

You hum, a curious tilt of your head, and Ellie rolls her eyes before the words are even out of your mouth. “No, I guess you’d have to have a girlfriend for that.”

You watch her run her tongue over her teeth, her shoulder against the door frame. “You know I could say the same to you, right?”

“Too bad I said it first,” you shrug, pretty smile stretching your lips. “I guess I'll go, then. I’ll come over when it's done so you don't miss me too much.”

Ellie tries to maintain her composure. You know, she thinks, do you know? You must know. You can't know— “Right. Also so you can steal my food and crash in my bed, I’m guessing.”

“When you’re all vulnerable and weak? What do you think of me, Ellie?” you frown sadly, a hand over your heart.

“I think I know you,” she says, the corner of her lips lifting just a little, inescapably.

You walk to the gate and turn around as you close the lock, your hands on either side of your mouth as if she’s miles and miles away. “I’ll take the couch!”

“Yeah, sure!” Ellie yells back, her voice pretty even when it's hoarse, knowing she’ll hold on for just about ten minutes before she insists you take the bed instead.

Joel stays awake with her until around 10pm, when his yawns become too many to hide and he’s already let Ellie win three games, his smile genuine and wide while she chuckles and pretends she doesn’t notice. He leaves her with a tupperware of soup for tomorrow’s lunch and a deck of cards. To teach your friends or— I don't know, keep on the coffee table, he’d said, make you look cool. Ellie’s not sure you would find a box of cards ‘cool’, but she’s not above trying.

Ever since she moved out to the garage, she’s discovered a new type of stress at the notion of having you over. At Joel’s house, all she ever did to prepare for guests was pick up the dirty clothes from her bedroom floor and put her books in a (wobbly) single pile. Now things are different. The garage is small, but it's all hers— her floor, her living room, her kitchen. She can't have you thinking that she can't take care of things on her own.

She spends the next hour moving things around until finally, two loud knocks. A second passes; Ellie looks at the cards and considers shoving them inside one of the drawers on her desk. By the time the one quiet knock comes, she shrugs and decides to leave them on the coffee table, lest Joel was right and she misses a chance to have you start thinking she's cool and mysterious. “It's open,” she says from the couch, tiredness soon catching up with her after all that time rearranging things.

The door opens and you come in, quickly closing it behind you, a relieved sigh at the loss of that crisp, cold breeze outside. “Did Joel forget those?” you ask, bent at the waist as you take your shoes off, your chin pointing at the deck, the only thing on the coffee table. Maybe she should've been more subtle with it.

“Uh, no,” Ellie scratches the back of her neck, her legs stretched across the couch. “They’re a gift.”

She's not sure you hear her over the groan you make as you stretch your arms above your head, her legs moved to the side automatically to make space for you to sit. You fall down with a sigh and both forget about the cards— you, distracted by the warm tingly feeling of a couple drinks, and Ellie by the new jacket you’re wearing.

She lets a million different scenarios spin around her head for a couple seconds before she blurts out the question. “Whose is that?”

“What?” you turn your head away from the movie playing on the TV.

“The jacket.”

“Oh,” you look down at yourself as if you’ve just remembered it’s there. “Maya was leaving too, so she walked here with me. It’s hers.”

Ellie hums, her back sliding a little further down the couch, legs spread. “Stinks like it’s hers.”

You chuckle before you can help it, her animosity ridiculous and charming— Ellie’s better with actions than she is with words. “I don't even know what you're talking about,” you shake your head, not quite slurring, but not too far from it either. "She smells like strawberries."

Fuck Maya and her strawberry shampoo. Ellie could get some if she wanted to, maybe if she traded— what the fuck is she thinking about? She rolls her shoulders back and pushes the thoughts away, gluing her eyes to the screen. “Sure,” she says, less because she agrees and more because she doesn't wanna hear what else you like about Maya. “You had fun, then?”

“It was alright. You didn't miss out on too much,” the end of your sentence stretched out by a yawn, you cover your mouth lazily and rest back fully against the couch. “Jesse was drunk. They had to stop him from getting up on a table.”

Ellie chuckles. “I don't know, maybe he had something to say. I think I would’ve let him.”

“That's what I said,” you smile and let your head fall to the side, your cheek against the cushion. She feels you staring, enables it for a while by acting oblivious, falsely over-invested in some movie she can't remember the title of. She hears you move closer before she feels it— the shuffle of your clothes, the stupid jacket rubbing against her couch, so easily forgettable by the time your temple falls on her shoulder.

Ellie's about to fall asleep when she hears the little noise you make, something like a sniffle. For a worrying second she thinks she might’ve given you her cold, but then she feels the tip of your nose brush against her shoulder and she realizes you’re trying to breathe her in.

“You always smell nice,” you whisper, half asleep.

Ellie swallows and prays to keep her body completely still, scared she’ll make the wrong move and have you pull away, scared you’ll lean closer and be able to hear the fast beating on her chest. She sounds breathy, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Like fresh rain.”

Slow like the roll of credits playing on the TV, Ellie feels how every muscle in her body settles down, relaxed, content— fucking cocky. She wraps her arm around your shoulders and hopes the scent will rub off on the jacket and remind Maya of a cloudy autumn night, rain over her garden.

─────✧･ﾟ: *✧･

THREE!

"Do you think we would've liked each other?" you ask, your legs resting on her lap while she fidgets mindlessly with the ruffled cuff of your socks. Every patrol lately ends the exact same way, a quiet walk home and a joint on Ellie’s couch. "Back when the world was normal?”

Ellie turns to look at you, blinking lazily, a reddish hue over her green. You’re not sure if she's more tired or high, but either way you're not doing much better— everything you’ve said during the past hour is the kind of thought you have when you're alone at night and your brain wanders, moments away from falling asleep. It's a meaningless question, but Ellie lets out a soft hum and thinks about it like it's worth considering. You're not sure if anyone you’ve met in your whole twenty years of life is as willing to indulge you as she is.

"Yeah," she says decidedly, in the same tone with which one would say duh. "We—" a yawn cuts her off, slender hand rubbing one of her eyes. "We would be friends, like, in college."

"I wouldn't be in college.”

Ellie frowns, takes one last inhale and discards the joint to the ashtray on her coffee table. "Why not?"

"'Cause I'm not smart like you," you shrug.

The fold between her eyebrows deepens. "You're smart," she argues, with enough conviction that you almost believe her, insisting, "You are."

"In other ways, sure—” Ellie opens her mouth to interrupt but you get ahead of her, “I’m not trying to talk badly about myself, I just don't think college would be for me.”

You’ve never been the most disciplined. It’s hard to imagine yourself staying up late to study, taking diligent notes in class. It feels ridiculous.

“I’d be working somewhere, I think. Making coffee for people or something.”

Ellie pauses before she nods, adjusting her daydream to what you’re saying, strangely committed. "Then we would meet there,” she makes it sound like the easiest thing in the world, a natural equation. “I'd go get coffee from you."

You chuckle. "You don't even like coffee that much."

Ellie shrugs, soft pink lips curved in a smirk that tells you she's sleepy and serves to warn you of the horror that's about to come out of her mouth.

You groan. “Don't—”

"Maybe I like the pretty girl that's making it."

“Awful,” you push her shoulder away, barely any force behind it, her giggles swimming comfortably around your head. “Never speak again.”

"Not my best work?" she asks, her fingers wrapping lazily around your shin. Too much, her brain warns, but then she remembers the pad of your finger over the back of her hand last night, the cursive lines with no purpose other than to be touching her— and it feels right, or like it's not enough. Too much soon turns to coward.

"Possibly your worst.”

She might be going crazy, but lately Ellie feels like you’re looking at her differently. In your eyes there's something gentle, awaiting, a tracing of your eyes over her face that says please. She chews on her lip, her eagerness painful. “We would like each other,” she doesn't think there's a world where you wouldn't, and if there was… "I'd make you like me."

You raise your eyebrows, teasing, "Oh, so like now?"

Her lips part with genuine surprise, more amused than offended. “...I made you, huh?”

You regret the joke as soon as it comes out of your mouth, immediately brought back to your fourteen year old self, lonely and admittedly captivated by the auburn haired girl from next door. Flashes of you rushing to catch up with her, untied laces on your too tight sneakers, Ellie, do you wanna be friends? The sound of pages shuffling and her voice reading in whispers in the dead of night because you asked, can you talk to me until I fall asleep? Infatuated from the beginning, obsessed. Even now, on her couch, after spending a whole day together— do you like me? Would you like me, always?

A pillow crashes against the side of her face, her laugh almost louder than the embarrassed pounding of your heart. You pull your legs from her lap and lie back, fold your arms over your face. “You're so annoying.”

A lie so obvious it makes Ellie smile. She shifts to crawl closer, one knee on either side of you. “C’mon, I was joking,” she leans forward and you feel her knuckles tap your arm like she’s knocking on a door. The power to make you shy is still foreign to her, makes her feel drunk, thrilled. She doesn't remember having it before, but of course it was there. In little ways, in daily, simple things. Your eyes always looking for her first in any room, lighting up even after an especially bad pun, tracing her arms when the day becomes too hot to keep her jacket on. You like her, of course. How much time has she been wasting? The breath she lets out feels like it's been waiting to be let go, years spent stuck in her lungs. Ellie wraps her fingers around one of your wrists, her voice sweet, achingly soft. “Want me to tell you why I know I’d like you?”

You lower your arms just slightly, eyes peering up at her.

“Yeah?” she tilts her head.

You nod, arms coming down, unusually quiet.

Ellie grins, victorious. “Okay, but fair warning— it's worse than the coffee thing.”

You chuckle. “Is it?”

“Very.”

“Hm,” you hum, pretending to think about it, distracted by the vision of her practically sitting on top of you. Freckled face framed by the hair that's escaped her usual bun, softly lit by the warmth of the lamp on her desk. “Alright,” you say finally.

It takes Ellie a second to respond, momentarily dazed by the thought of being pretty enough for you to ogle like this. She clears her throat. “You ready?”

You tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear and away from her eyes. “Sure.”

Ellie waits for the nerves to come, but even as she parts her lips to speak, they never do. What a kind fate. “I know I’d like you because nothing’s ever made more sense to me— I’ve been doing it since I was a kid. I like you enough for a million lifetimes.”

You look at each other, bask in a moment of understanding. Your eyes on her lips, a hand on her waist that pulls her closer. “That was worse,” you agree.

Ellie moves to rest on her forearms, cages you in, her nose brushing against yours. “I told you.”

She waits, feels herself count once again, a final time, one, two—

A hand against the back of her neck brings her in and the quiet noise of her surprise vibrates against your lips, makes her smile into the kiss for just a second before the hunger takes over. Her hips readjusting over yours, knees pressing against your sides, Ellie kisses like it's a need rather than a whim. She takes and takes and swallows every sigh you make like it's a gift, four, five, six seconds of a messy trail of kisses down your neck to say thank you before she resurfaces again.

“Love you,” she breathes out, because suddenly all that talk about ‘like’ feels stupid— immature, incomparable to what she actually feels for you. “Need you.”

You moan against her lips and it's her favorite sound in the whole world, immediately, as quick as realizing she would fall in love with you the day she met you. “Love you, Ellie.”

A kiss to your clavicle, your hands pulling at her shirt and her thigh between yours. She makes you say it three more times.

#ellie williams x reader #ellie williams fic #ellie williams fluff #ellie x reader #ellie williams headcanons #ellie williams imagine #ellie x fem reader #ellie williams smut #loser!ellie #ellie williams fanfic

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all-doggirls-go-to-heaven-2 · 5 months ago

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The thing is that writing transfem first date advice is not that hard. Like. I feel like there are a couple of things to watch out for because of our condition as a social group but its not that deep.

Like, really, it comes down to three or four things.

First: Take initiative because she will often feel pressured to/uncomfortable with being the one to do it. We're pressured since we're young into that role and it can feel suffocating, plus with the ever-growing paranoia abt every trans women being a predator, there's a fear of crossing a line (especially when it's the first time meeting someone)

Second: Transfems are usually pretty socially isolated, either in past or present, so there will be niche hobbies and interests. Listen to what she has to say abt it and gauge if it matches to your tastes, because if you want this to not be just a hook up the topic will come up again and its not gonna go great when on date number 3 you forget completely what she told you abt her favorite show. These things are important for many of us because its what allowed us to survive isolatiom at times.

Third: be assertive. Way too many ppl I went out with thought I was nice and cool and interesting but were so scared to touch me, so scared to take a pass at me, that it just feels. Awkward and like your body is this weird alien thing. This is a date like every other right? So touch her. Really do it. Make sure to let them know that you are going to put your hands on them On Purpose.

Like apart from that? Genuinely? Use common sense. None of that "dont touch her tits/touch her tits" like. Talk to her how she feels abt her body if it feels like that question would come up (maybe shes early transition, maybe shes anxious, maybe shes inexperienced), but if you're going out with a girl 8 years into transition its unlikely shes going to have the same level of hangups as someone who just got started in this "being trans" thing. But you are unfortunstely gonna have to be the judge on that because everybody has a diff body.

Its not that hard man. Like yes i feel like there is a place for a well-meaning "hey how do you date trans women" but unfortunately men keep fucking it up so its up to a lesbian to try and explain how you dorks should talk to women

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f4rfields · 7 months ago

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ngl sometimes the sentiment of "don't ever say anything that might suggest someone may be trans ever" on tumblr being as pervasive as it is feels less like a "i'm trying to be respectful of how you identify/not trying to pry into something you may not be comfortable with" thing and more adjacent to the "trans-as-social-contagion" line that transphobes have.

i didn't feel like i was able to id as anything but cis woman until one of my transfem nb lesbian friends took the time to ask me how i felt about my relationship to gender after watching me post quite a bit in the vent channels on a discord server we were both on. she told me that a lot of the feelings i was having about my relationship to gender and sexuality were things she had also felt before when figuring her own relationship to it out (albeit her journey was different because she also has to navigate transmisogyny), that i shouldn't be afraid to explore the possibility of being nonbinary and even just using "lesbian" as a means to describe my relationship to gender if that felt right, and that i wouldn't be stepping on anyone's toes in doing so.

and that conversation was like a sigh of relief to me after having held my breath for years and being afraid of putting an actual name to how i felt about myself. tbh, if she hadn't reached out, i'd probably still be here telling myself that i'm a cis woman despite how much the concept made me want to crawl out of my skin and made me feel like i was having to smother a part of myself in the process. and i do not think that this is a completely unique experience.

while there's always a line that can be crossed when it comes to just about any personal topic and ultimately that gender identity is journey of self-discovery, the idea that even mildly and compassionately suggesting that someone might benefit from exploring options with their gender identity during a heart-to-heart is somehow inherently disrespectful, or god forbid, predatory (especially when it comes to transfems) is something a lot of people need to unpack.

#text #transphobia ///#transmisogyny ///#and asking a cis person how they feel about their gender isn't going to make them trans lol #it just provides them an opportunity to consider what their gender means to them in more detail

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wheneverfeasible · 21 days ago

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Awakenings

wc: 2.3k || rating: T || cw: none || summary: Steve, Robin, and Eddie discuss their queer awakenings with (not-so-) surprising results. || ao3

“I mean, I don’t blame you,” Eddie grinned from where he was draped over the Buckleys’ couch, socked feet crossed against the wall as his head hung upside down off the cushions. “Jodie Foster is a babe. Did you see her in Carny?”

Steve laughed at Robin’s red face. “More times than she would like to admit,” he teases her, throwing a half-popped piece of popcorn at her face. Her resulting shriek was worth her throwing an aptly named throw pillow at his head.

Steve doesn’t know exactly how they got on to this topic, but it wasn’t unusual. Ever since Robin came out to Eddie, resulting in Eddie coming out to her in a panic at seeing her look so uncomfortable, which then resulted in Steve having to come out when Eddie panicked about him, well, a lot of their conversations when they were alone devolved into queerdom.

They had been watching music videos on TV and discussing who was hot, which resulted in them talking about how they had discovered they were queer, or maybe should have realized it sooner. Apparently Eddie had been obsessed with this one Irish singer/bassist dude who had recently passed away, which now that he knew he was bi, he realized now had been a celebrity crush.

Which prompted Robin to tell them who had been her lesbian awakening, another celebrity crush.

“Ugh, too bad I don’t have a chance with her,” Robin bemoaned from where she was now trying to smother Steve with the pillow she had thrown at him from their spots on the floor in front of the TV. “Not only is she a celebrity, but she’s also straight!”

Steve laughed, pushing Robin away. “I don’t know, man, you saw that interview she did years ago when asked about boys,” he teased her. “She probably likes boobies too.”

“Stop saying boobies!” Robin shrieked again, grabbing another pillow to smother him with.

Eddie laughed at them, well used to their sibling dynamic. “Well, we all know who awakened little Stevie, don’t we?” he teased, causing the two roughhousing to pause. Which was just as good since they’d ended up knocking over the popcorn bowl, though thankfully it was mostly empty already.

Steve hesitated, wondering if he’d been that obvious. “I truly don’t think you know,” he said dryly, almost mockingly. He wasn’t ashamed of it or embarrassed by it, but he also hadn’t wanted to make anything weird in their friend group.

“C’mon, dude. It’s obvious! Tom Cruise!”

Steve froze. Processed. Let out a groan. “Oh my god, I’ve had a crush on Tom Cruise this whole time,” he whined, dropping back onto the floor on his back. “No wonder Nancy always gave me a look when I wanted to watch his movies.”

Robin and Eddie both laughed at him, though at least Robin had the decency to try to hide hers.

“You mean you didn’t know?” Eddie asked, obviously delighted by that turn of events. “Christ, Harrington, I thought you were going to cream your pants when we watched Top Gun.”

“Well I know I like him now,” Steve complained from his spot on the floor, waving a hand in the air. “But he wasn’t the one who made me realize I was bi.”

“Oooh, then who was it?” Robin teased him, poking him in the ribs to watch him squirm.

Steve rolled his eyes. Maybe he hadn’t been obvious then. He sat back up and propped himself up on his hands with a small shrug. Like he said, he wasn’t ashamed or embarrassed. Well, maybe embarrassed by what had made him realize, but not the who of it. Never the who.

“Jonathan,” he answered simply.

Now it was Eddie’s turn to squawk, tumbling ass over tits from the couch to the floor as he tried to lift himself up to stare agog at Steve. “WHAT!”

Steve just let out a chuckle, bringing up a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Yeah, pretty early on actually. Well, I didn’t realize it was a small crush yet, but yeah.” He let out a heavy sigh with another roll of his eyes at his two friends’ gaping expressions.

“When was this!” Robin exclaimed. “How could you not tell me about all of this!”

“I just didn’t think it was important,” he huffed. His cheeks turned slightly pink at her first question, however. “Uh…it was…whenhepunchedme,” he said in a rush.

“Sorry, could you repeat that, because it sounds like you said when he punched you!”

Steve could only give her a sheepish grin and another small shrug. “It was kind of hot,” he admitted, causing Robin to throw herself back with a small wail. Eddie was just staring at him with wide eyes, but what else was new. “He liked Nancy and was trying to defend her honor, and then I said those really shitty things about his family when Will was missing.”

Steve sighed. Honestly, he regretted those things the most. Sure, he’d been wrong about what Jonathan and Nancy had been up to, but Nancy hadn’t given him another excuse than cheating on him at the time. Saying those hateful things about the Byers though, when he knew they were hurting? That had been fucked up, especially when he saw what an amazing person Joyce was, and how sweet Will was.

He’d apologized to them all after that first time (minus Lonnie of course because that guy does suck) but he still feels bad about it.

“I just thought it was hot at first though, the strength and male aggression, which made me realize maybe I was the queer. Then I started thinking about how Jon protects those he cares about, and by the time I realized that I felt jealous of both him and Nancy, they were already dating.”

“Oh my god,” Eddie muttered, scrubbing a palm over his face. “Oh my god.”

“I don’t have a crush on him now,” Steve complained. “But yeah. Jonathan Byers was my bi awakening,” he added with a grin.

“I can’t believe you never told me this,” Robin hissed, smacking him in the arm. “And after the Russian drug confessions and everything!”

“Hey!” Steve said, swatting back at her. He pointed an accusing finger at Eddie. “What about Eddie! He never told us who was his awakening. Just that he should have known sooner than he did.”

Robin’s gaze immediately swerved to take in Eddie’s pinking expression, a wicked grin curling her lips. “That’s right. Who made you realize you were a big fat homo, Munson?”

Eddie chuckled nervously, his gaze darting back and forth between them. “Uh…does it matter?” he hedged, causing Steve and Robin to roll their eyes in sync.

“I told you about Jonathan,” Steve pointed out. “And Robin told you about how she’s been a useless lesbian all her life.”

“Hey!”

“So who did it, Munson? Who made you realize you like boobies and dick,” Steve grinned.

Eddie continued looking at him, eyes wide and face turning pinker by the moment. “I…” An excruciating moment passed before his face crumpled and his squeezed his eyes shut with a nose scrunch Steve had always found adorable. He covered his face in his hands and let out a pained sigh. “It was you, okay,” he said, voice cracking.

Silence.

Steve felt a stutter in his chest, turning to look at Robin who was staring back at him with her own shocked expression. As one, they turned back to look at Eddie.

“Me?” Steve softly asked. He probably shouldn’t feel so smug about that, but he also couldn’t help it. To think that he, Steve Harrington, had been someone’s queer awakening. It was totally going to his head.

“Yes, you,” Eddie huffed, dropping his hands but not raising his head at all.

“When?” Was it back in high school? Back when he was wearing his gym shorts or speedos for swim? Eddie thought he was hot, whenever it was. He tried to keep a smile off his face at the thought.

“When you…” Eddie let out a groan, obviously embarrassed, which…ow? Was he embarrassed he thought Steve attractive? Was this just because Steve was a normie or because of who he’d been in high school?

“When I what?” Steve asked just as softly. He didn’t know if he wanted to know the answer now.

“When you bit the bat in the Upside Down,” Eddie admitted in a tone like pulling teeth.

Yeah. Okay. Steve definitely didn’t want the answer now. Because what the fuck?

“What the fuck?”

Eddie flinched a little at Steve’s response. “Look, it was hot okay!” he tried to protest. “At least you weren’t punching my face Mr. I-have-a-crush-on-Jonathan-Byers.”

“Had. Had a crush,” he reflexively corrected. He blinked at Eddie who still refused to look at him. “Are you shitting me right now, Munson? That was when you knew? I thought you’ve known for years!” Steve complained, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Did you have a crush on me, or did you just think I was hot?”

He regretted the question as soon as it left his mouth. Of course Eddie never had a crush on him. Finding a guy attractive was one thing, but actively liking him? Yeah, Steve knew better than to think Eddie could ever like him like that.

“Have,” Eddie whispered.

“What?”

“I have a crush on you,” Eddie mumbled, and then he was finally looking up Steve through his bangs. “I used to think…I mean, you’d never go for the weird guys. But then Byers?” he asked, tone still quiet, but now with a note of derision to it. “I have much better hair.”

Steve blinked. Blinked some more. Then he drew in a shuddering breath. Eddie has a crush on him. As in currently. As in right now.

Oh.

A warmth blossomed up in Steve’s chest, something he’d never imagined possible actually coming true. He cleared his throat, ducking his head a little to try to get a better look through the curtain of Eddie’s hair?

“Do you know what’s hotter than a punch to a face?” When Eddie lifted his head some to stare at him more fully, giving a small shake of his head, Steve grinned. “Being manhandled against a wall with a broken bottle to the neck.”

Eddie’s eyes widened, his face now fully flamed red, and Steve figured that maybe he really did have a thing for dorks. Considering how he was wanting to smother Eddie’s red cheeks with kisses and love devotions, maybe Eddie wasn’t the only dork here, however.

Carefully, slowly, Steve reached out to settle his hand on Eddie’s knee, his thumb lightly stroking the exposed skin there through the other man’s ripped jeans. Eddie stilled beneath him, scarcely seeming to even breathe, which boosted Steve’s confidence. He let his grin settle into something softer.

“So…it was the bats, really?” he lightly teased. “Not my school speedos, or even me shirtless and throwing my sweater at you?” He raised his brows at that. “I really wasn’t being subtle there dude.”

Eddie lifted his head fully then to stare at Steve aghast. “I didn’t know you liked guys! You were practically throwing yourself at Wheeler!”

“Well yeah, you weren’t giving me anything to go off of,” Steve complained rolling his eyes. “And I wasn’t about to make our friendship awkward by telling you I had a crush on you. Why do you think I never told Jonathan? I thought it didn’t matter. Even when you came out as bi—which, you’re welcome, by the way,” Steve added smugly, causing Eddie to scowl and pick up a discarded pillow to throw at him, “you never showed me any interest. Even when I came out as bi.”

“Well, yeah, you’re like…outrageously hot and an ex-jock. I knew better than to get my hopes up,” Eddie rolled his eyes.

“Maybe I should have bit more bats then,” Steve grinned. “Given you more of an incentive.”

“Yeah, okay, Ozzy, but I didn’t—wait, you have a crush on me?”

Steve knew it was mean, but he still laughed at Eddie’s owlish blinking. “Have since the boathouse, but thanks for finally catching up.”

“Oh my god, you are such a bitch!” Despite his words, Eddie was smiling wide, his eyes full of that sparkle Steve loved so much.

Steve could have said something snarky then, but instead he just slid his hand into the hair at the back of Eddie’s neck and pulled the metalhead into a kiss, smiling against his startled lips. It only took a moment for Eddie to respond enthusiastically, however, bringing his own hands up to grab onto the collar of Steve’s shirt as they tumbled backwards.

It took a moment for Steve to even realize Robin was no longer there, didn’t even know when she had left, too trapped in Eddie’s confession. He didn’t truly even acknowledge her absence until she yelled from the kitchen to keep hands above the waist and they only had five more minutes before she was spraying them with water.

Steve chuckled happily against Eddie’s lips, whose answering soft laughter was a balm to his nerves. Eddie liked him back.

It was six minutes later, when Robin really did come back with a spray bottle and forced them apart, that Steve had Eddie curled up on the floor against him with their backs to the sofa, Robin keeping the spray bottle nearby just in case. He didn’t think he had ever been happier.

“Oh, and Oz?” Eddie murmured softly, looking up at him from where he rested his head against Steve’s shoulders.

“Yeah?” Steve answered, feeling something warm and sweet at his apparent new nickname that held so much meaning for the both of them now.

“I am so telling Jonathan you had a crush on him.”

I’ve long thought it would be amazing if Eddie nicknamed Steve “Ozzy” and finally I got the chance to put it into a fic. It will definitely be a reoccurring thing though whenever I get the chance tehe

Hostage Hotties: @derythcorvinus @katyawriteswhump @honeii-puff @scoops-aboy86 @dotdot-wierdlife

#steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #steddie #platonic stobin #three muskequeers #stranger things #plot thots

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batmanisagatewaydrug · 4 months ago

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first of all, this is all legit, and not bait, though i have a feeling it may come off that way, this did happen to me. please don't publish if tumblr sends it off anon.

i'm a lesbian with gender dysphoria, and while i haven't had much sexual experience, i would consider myself a stone top. in the last year and a half i began reading "terf"/radical feminist writings and reading "terf" tumblr blogs fairly actively, largely out of frustration with misogyny i was experiencing IRL. though i never engaged with the community i did stop identifying as genderfluid and started understanding my dysphoria as stemming from the trauma of being bullied by other girls for having a high-androgen DSD, and using different pronouns/transition thoughts as unhealthy coping mechanisms. i'm happy with this, but i also don't know if i'm attracted to women anymore.

i've always been attracted to women in a way that's stereotypically guy-like; i find feminine women very attractive and not so much fellow(?) butches, want to penetrate with a strap on, don't like bush much, cursory interest in BDSM/daddy kink. i read/watched het erotica and porn sometimes and identified with the man. what i read problematized pretty much every aspect of that- femininity as a cage, penetration as violence/straps as disidentification w the female body, infantilization of women, bdsm as abuse etc. also, desisting making me more conscious of dysphoria/knowledge of how extensive sexual dimorphism is putting me off both women with larger breasts and hips AND smaller breasts and hips/unrealistically masculine body types as well. so a lot of what turned me on before isn't arousing anymore, or i feel guilty about it, and i haven't been able to find butch4butch stuff which is much healthier very interesting.

i consider my sexuality healthier now on a political level but my ability to get aroused/jerk off has plummeted (used to be i could jork it sunrise to sunset) and thinking about being in a relationship w another woman makes me feel uneasy and weird, especially since a lot of what i read emphasized reciprocative cunnilingus/tribbing (which i don't like) as the healthiest sex options. i also think about both my dysphoria and my sexuality issues 100x more than i did before, even though i was promised the opposite (freedom from dysphoria and feeling happier as a lesbian), and it's stressing me out day-to-day. i'm aware based on your general ethos that you probably think i'm a terrible person right now, but i figured it'd be useful to seek the opinion of someone who radically disagrees with what i've read on what i could/should do next, since i admittedly miss being at peace with my sexuality.

thanks for reading.

hi there anon,

it's a bummer that you'd think I would assume you're a terrible person based on everything you've told me here. I generally try not to consider people terrible unless they're actively being shitheads or hurting other people, which doesn't sound at all like you're describing. from what you've told me, you've been up to your eyes in some information that's made you feel deeply uncomfortable in your sexuality and now you're seeking out a new perspective to help you make sense of that hurt. that describes most of the people who send me questions!

it's so striking to me that much of what you're describing is very reminiscent of what's recounted in The Persistent Desire, an anthology of writings on butch/femme identities edited by femme historian and archivist Joan Nestle that was released in 1992. in various essays and interviews countless butches and femmes recount their discomfort with the feminist turn against butch and femme identities that too place in the 70s, when both roles were declared problematic recreations of heterosexuality and summarily decried as politically "incorrect" for lesbians. it's shocking to me how much what you've described echoes these accounts experienced by lesbians half a century ago - the disowning of women who are "excessively" feminine or masculine, the demonizing of penetrative sex, general insistence that there are "correct" sex acts that every lesbian is supposed to enjoy, and the deep discomfort and insecurity that this causes among people who don't fit into the very rigid standards of proper lesbian identity set forth.

here's a link to a PDF, if that's interesting to you at all. it's very long, so feel free not to read it straight through; it's a great project to skim and an incredible way to get in touch with the lesbians who came before us. their accounts of their lives are so wildly different from the boundaries of "good" queer representation that feel so universal today; in discussing their own lives many of these women speak very bluntly about their experiences with abuse, drugs, sex work, and violence. it's a great glimpse into the lives and history of a lot of very ordinary lesbians just living their lives, and I'm very grateful it's been preserved.

now, as for what you're actually gonna do: hey. listen. first of all, if you haven't given up reading this stuff yet, you've gotta. you simply cannot keep internalizing stuff that makes you overanalyze your own sexuality so hard that you feel uncomfortable about being attracted to women. that's not "healthy," that's conversion therapy lite. there are other places to talk about feminism without being made to feel ashamed of yourself.

listen: there's nothing unhealthy about anything that you described about yourself. being a stone butch, being attracted to certain looks and aesthetics, watching porn, wanting to use a strap and roleplay during sex and not being interested in other sexual activities - all of those thing are completely normal and, yes, healthy. certainly healthier than feeling the need to repress your sexuality so hard that thinking about being with a woman doesn't feel right!

should we run through that list?

femininity as cage - sure, okay, femininity isn't for everyone, and there are parts of it that suck. that doesn't mean there's anything wrong with women who like to wear dresses or put on makeup or shave or whatever, or anyone who's attracted to those women. genuinely I cannot think of anything less interesting or important to feminist organizing than getting hung up about what people want to wear. it's clothes, dude. it's fucking clothes. pick a more important hill to die on, I implore you.

penetration is not the same thing as violence. there's just nothing to debate about that one; it's patently absurd to pretend that every act of penetrative sex is rape and you'd have to fundamentally misunderstand how consent works to believe that.

straps are not about "disidentification with the female body," they're about augmenting a sexual experience. a strap-on is not more problematic than a vibrator or a massage oils or a pillow used to prop up a body part. unless those are also bad? are those bad? are pillows disidentifying from the female body also? I'm not up to date on this.

straight up I don't even know which part of your whole deal the infantilization of women is supposed to address, but a thing that I've always found interesting about a lot of radical feminists who are deeply distrustful of sex is the way that many of them seem to assume that women can't be trusted to understand their own sexual desires and need to be taught what's appropriate. seems kind of condescending to me, personally.

BDSM isn't the same thing as abuse. abuse, crucially, is not a situation that people can safe word out of or negotiate the constraints of. it's kind of like how, you know, I purposefully pay people to shove needles in my skin when I want a tattoo, but I wouldn't be stoked about it if somebody just ran up to me in public and started stabbing me without any warning or conversation. context is crucial. there can certainly be abusive people within BDSM spaces, but that's true of people of literally every sexual proclivity on earth, and certainly not an innate feature of BDSM. it's just make believe, dude. it's dress up. it's sex LARPing.

also, psst, hey. that thing about being attracted to women in a "guy-like" way? no such thing. men are humans, dude; they experience attraction in as many different ways as anyone else. for every dude interested in the same stuff as you there are men yearning for hairy women, muscular women, masculine women, women who will dominate them, women who would rather be eaten out then penetrated, and so on. to say nothing of the men who aren't into women at all! and, as is obvious from your own experience, men don't have a monopoly on those kinds of feelings, anyway! there are no men or women feelings, dude; it's all just people having feelings and fighting for their lives trying to figure out what they're into to.

I want to particularly talk about that last bit, where you mentioned not enjoying or wanting to engage in cunnilingus or tribbing. that's totally fine! people like different shit in all kinds of combinations - I'm personally a huge fan of getting eaten out and scratched up or bitten, but I don't do penetration and I've genuinely never met anyone who actually liked tribbing - and there are absolutely people out there who will, to paraphrase the poet Tinashe, perfectly match your freak.

(have you heard about the perpetual, critical shortage of tops that the queer community faces? you'd be a godsend, just saying.)

also, actually, hey I wanted to circle back to another thing as well: it's deeply alarming to me that whatever radfem stuff you've been reading has you feeling "put off" of women with wide hips and large breasts as well as women with small breasts and hips. what is wrong with either of those? both of those are just ways that women naturally look. women just look a wide variety of ways, and it's sad that that's upsetting you now. just thinking about this, conceptually, is giving me hives.

having been up to your eyes in all of this, I can definitely understand why you'd feel the urge to overanalyze you own gender and sexuality to the point of completely talking yourself out of identifying with anything that feels good for you. as I said, that's actually not healthy in any way, and as a sex educator I can't say that I think anyone genuinely invested in your well-being would want that for you.

entirely aside from their feelings on trans people, which I obviously disagree with pretty vehemently, one of the things about radfems that's most endlessly vexing to me is the insistence that such an extremely narrow range of sexual behaviors are appropriate. seems like a miserable way to live, and I sincerely hope you can detangle yourself from the morass of shame it's landed you in. you deserve better.

#sex edventures 2024

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