(she/her) Fangirling about DC, the Fantastic Four and Star Wars.
Other hyperfixations may arise and take over our very soul, we are not to be held responsible for overposting nor the abuse of CAPS LOCK. It's not screaming it's EMPHASIS!
hashtag mylesbians hashtag myhollanova and everyone say thank you to real hockey lesbians marie-philip poulin and laura stacey for the pose reference 🫡 butch shane you are my love my life the air I breathe etc etc etc
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"Hey, we’re thieves, man, and we’re good at what we do, but this is way, way out of our league. And you expect us to go catch some psycho with a city killer? A country killer?"
Can’t reblog the post going round containing these two screenshots:
So I’ll put my addition here:
This also applies to women who complain about feminism requiring them to work, rather than being ‘ladies of leisure’. Women equivalent to them in the past always worked - who do they think were the maids, housekeepers, cooks, nannies, wet nurses, governesses, washerwomen, spinners, weavers, seamstresses, nurses, midwives, etc - and today’s equivalent of the past’s ladies of leisure can afford to be ladies of leisure now. Feminism fought for women’s work to be acknowledged, valued, and fairly paid, and that fight is still ongoing.
here's some instances in which ilya has to drop everything and bail svetlana out:
when she loses her passport in prague
any sort of visa or international travel related question
when she gets too high and gets Scared
when she gets arrested.
when her mom is being annoying and she has to attend another one of her galas where it's all only models or rich VCs and her mom won't stop getting on svetlana's case about finding a long term boyfriend so she and ilya have to arrive together and pretend to consider marriage. this stops being an option when ilya starts dating shane.
when she gets into a fight with best friend #3497 because she slept with her dad or her mom or her brother or her boyfriend or -- anyway and because of that she gets stranded on whatever international vacation she got taken on because svetlana only likes being friends with rich people or celebrities
whenever she has a phone call with her mom for longer than 30 minutes.
when she doesn't get into grad school the first time and goes on a bender and gets arrested
when she makes ilya edit her grad school application one year later because ilya's surprisingly good at grammar
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I know this isn't going to be a popular opinion but #myirina wasn't a frail white dove that got ensnared by evil Grigori and was never anything but kind and sad. People aren't really like that. Maybe Ilya thinks of her that way but that's because she died traumatically when he was twelve.
My Irina was a mean bitch, but she was also funny about it. That's the first thing we ever know of her. She was funny and she was beautiful. I don't see her being a mean girl in the traditional sense, but she was clever and cutting and quick. You faced up against her and she was jumping for the jugular at an unexpected angle and then she laughed with your blood on her teeth. And you couldn't even get mad at her. It was a good, fair hit. Touché.
I see Grigori walking on a street of Moscow and looking up at the sound of laughter, and Irina and a couple of her friends are out on a smoke break from wherever they work. Irina is still talking, moving her hand in an expansive gesture of disdain and delivering the most brutal line he's ever heard, and then she finishes and joins in the laughter and her laugh is so loud and free that it makes him stop in his tracks. She sees this older man looking at her, checking her out, and isn't moved because this is not the first time and it won't be the last one either. Irina is fucking gorgeous. She has wispy brown curls that keep escaping her bun and sticking to her neck in the summer heat, she has the sharp angular facial features of a Tsarina, thick pouty lips with a mole above the left side, and the darkest most intense brown eyes in the world. She sees this man looking, smiles knowingly and sends him a wink before returning her attention to her friends and her cigarette.
Grigori wants wants wants.
He courts her for a couple of months and Irina is receptive enough to it. He's rich and established and handsome, broad shoulders and a commanding presence and sparkling blue eyes that cut through her and read her like a book. That's where Ilya gets his perceptiveness, not his mother but his father. People are always distracted by Irina's beauty and spark, she's never felt truly seen until Grigori.
They have sex (and Grigori is not her first time, she's had plenty of boyfriends since she was twelve or thirteen), she gets pregnant, and her religious family throws her out. Irina could have gotten an abortion, because abortions have been perfectly legal and commonplace in Russia since 1955. She doesn't want to. She wants to keep her baby because Irina is cool and fun and clever and sparking with wit, but she's also depressed, just like her son. She believes that this baby will fulfill something that has always been empty inside her.
Grigori agrees to take care of her and the baby. He even agrees to marry her (in a religious ceremony, which he's soooooo annoyed by because he's a true believer in the soviet state and a staunch atheist) so her family starts talking to her again, even if the relationship is never fixed and the distance grows and grows until it becomes full strangement. Grigori gets them a nice apartment, big enough to build a family, and buys her pretty dresses and fur coats and sparkly jewels that she can admire in the mirror while feeling like the luckiest woman in the world. She's happy and content with her life, until Alexei comes along.
The Post-Partum Depression hits her like a truck. This baby was supposed to fix her and he doesn't fix anything, he makes everything worse. She's struggling and she's drowning and doesn't know how to climb out of the hole. Grigori doesn't know what PPD fucking is, he just sees that his beautiful bright young wife has become an angry crying woman who abandons their child to cry on his crib while she takes a smoke break that sometimes last hours. He comes back home to find the baby alone and Irina is on the rooftop, eyes wet and a whole carton of cigarette butts scattered around her.
It gets worse before it gets better. Grigori sends Andrei/Alexei to live with his brother and his wife for a while, until Irina can be trusted to be alone with him. It takes a couple of months, but she does get better, and they get the baby back and never speak of it again... but Grigori is now aware that there is a weakness within his wife he hadn't seen before, and respects her less for it. He's more commanding, less flexible, always has to get his own way. Irina fights back but always ends up surrendering to her husband, because what else can she do?
She can leave, of course. Nowadays one in every two marriages ends up in divorce in Russia, and it wasn't that different under the Soviet Union. There wouldn't be much of a stigma. But Irina doesn't want to leave. Irina wants to live in her beautiful apartment with her important husband and their cute baby. The cruelty is just starting out, and she doesn't think it's that bad. She doesn't want to realize that it will only get worse.
She loves her son. She does. She struggles with him, because she's young and inexperienced and still struggling with her mental health, but she does love her Lyosha, her sweet baby boy. Grigori takes over raising him when he's old enough, making him in his own image, but she's not too concerned. That's what a father does with his son.
And then she gets pregnant with Ilya.
She's gotten pregnant once before, after Alexei. She had quietly gone to the doctor and gotten an abortion. Grigori had found out eventually, but he hadn't been too bothered. He likes this Irina. The Irina who is back to being funny and beautiful and kind, who makes him laugh and shares his bed and takes care of the things he doesn't want to deal with. No need to have another baby and risk breaking her again.
Irina doesn't get an abortion with Ilya. Alexei is getting older and she misses having a baby. Not the part with the crying and the diapers and the teething and the colics because she doesn't remember those parts, those parts disappear in the fuzzy happy memories of small socks and lullabies and being the center of someone's world.
Irina wants to have a daughter. Her own baby all for herself.
Grigori isn't happy, but he isn't displeased either. Okay. Irina is doing better and she'll be better this time. He does warn her that the moment she slips he'll send both kids away, that he won't be as permissive as the last time.
Ilya is a beautiful boy. He has his father's nearly blond hair and sparkly blue eyes, but his face is all Irina. "He will be such a beautiful boy," she sighs, delighted. "All the girls will fall in love with him, yes, they will."
Grigori smiles at that, kisses her forehead, and tells her that she's done well.
And she has. The pregnancy has gone well, and she feels fine after it, and Ilyushenka is such a sweet, easy baby. He's all sweetness and gummy smiles and soft curls that smell like heaven. Her little boy.
And then the URSS falls.
I think this is when Grigori goes from being a detached kind-of-shitty husband and father to being really cruel. Everything he ever believed in, everything he ever worked for, gone. He's police and even he's going hungry. His family is going hungry. All of Russia is, of course, but Grigori is a proud man. He got a beautiful clever wife by taking care of her, by buying her beautiful things and providing a good home for her and her babies.
Grigori Rozanov has a newborn at home, and every single one of his faraway hungry cries feels like a blow and an insult. Irina screams at him and throws things at the wall and then cries because her babies need food and what kind of man is he, if he can't get it? He hits her for the first time then. It won't happen often, even now, but it's a line crossed.
The world changes under their feet. They adapt as they can.
Grigori spends years fighting to keep his position, but he manages it. He's still an important man. Less important. Less respected. Angrier. He comes home to a wife who is not in love with him anymore. She fell in love with someone greater than life, and now he's just a man. It's cruel of Irina to hold it against him. She still does it.
They still have sex, they still take care of the family, and they still go to parties together, he serious and she sparkling with wit and joy, pretty enough that her dresses don't look too old and her neck doesn't look too bare where the diamonds used to be. They make it work, but all former happiness is long dead.
Irina is doing worse. It isn't sudden. She gets a little worse, and then a little bit worse, and so on. She clings to her baby Ilyushenka with both hands, because he's still so little and so sweet and can't see how much Irina is failing him. Ilya becomes her mother's perfect little gentleman and is understood that it's his job to keep her happy. Grigori resents this because she's no longer happy in the first place, Lyosha resents it because he wishes he was their mother's favorite, and Ilya SHOULD resent it because he's fucking five and this is unfair to him. He's the one getting punished by their family anyway.
And here is when I'm probably going to lose you-- Irina doesn't want to leave because a lot of people are worse off. She got married young instead of studying or building a career, so even if she wanted to she couldn't get a job. There are a lot of women fighting for what little there is, and most of them have degrees and experience. She's just a pretty girl that married an important soviet man and then her country gave up right under her. The only way she realistically has to climb up... is to find another man who is more important than Grigori.
Irina cheats on him with Sergey Vetrov.
It's not a conspiracy, or anything. Sergey and Grigori are good friends, and they have children of the same age, and Sergey is rich. He's so rich. Everyone around them has become poorer but Sergey defected years ago to play for the Boston Raiders and became a traitor, but now that the URSS is done for, he gets to come back a rich man and be adored. At least for the summers, when the MLH is in the off season.
Did I say that they're good friends?? Grigori hates his fucking guts. But still. He's an important rich man and he wants to keep him close.
Ilya and Svetlana play together under the watchful eye of her nanny, and Irina and Sveta's mother smoke and laugh in the kitchen. And then Svetlana's mother doesn't come back to Russia with them one summer, and Irina smokes and laughs with Sergei.
It takes a couple of weeks for things to escalate, but they do. Irina does it because she resents her husband, and then she thinks about what being with Sergey instead would be like. She knows that he was a terrible husband to Svetlana's mother, that he cheated on her and humiliated her, that he allowed people to mock her dark skin and terrible Russian to her face, but she's convinced it will be different with her. Irina could be a good Russian wife, and secretly has always thought herself smarter and better than Svetlana's mother, with her stuttering Russian and her constant complaints about a husband who kept her in comfort and gave her everything she could wish. She was a very pretty plaything, but Irina is a real woman. Sergei seems to agree.
Grigori knows. He knows the moment he sees her after it first happens. He bites his tongue and dies of humiliation in silence, and Irina loves every second of it.
The summer is about to end, and Irina asks him about maybe staying in his Russian home with her kids, because she wants to leave her husband. He refuses, and refuses loudly. Irina thought they were having an affair, that Sergey was crazy about her. She was wrong. Irina was just there out of convenience. He’s had plenty of good Russian women on his bed, just like every other summer.
Grigori knew it would end like this, and when Irina comes back home early, clearly having cried, he smiles at her as nasty as he can and asks her about Sergey. Ilya and Alexei hide in their room while their parents SCREAM at each other. It gets bad. It never improves again.
Next summer, Vetrov calls Grigori and tells him that his little princess Sveta misses Ilyukha, and wants him to come play with her. It's understood, of course, that it will happen as he wishes. Grigori feels the plastic of the phone crack under his grasp while he agrees. He drops Ilya off whenever is asked of him, but Irina never steps foot on the house again.
Sergey Vetrov takes the children skating, and sees just how good Ilya is. Grigori and Irina always brag about his skills, of course, but he never paid attention before. He's exceptional. Irina wasn't good enough to keep his interest. Ilya is. Irina doesn't allow herself to be resentful. (She tries not to be. She tries so hard. She loves Ilya with everything she has, and so she tries for him.)
Irina is doing badly. Because of course she is. She's a mentally ill woman with no resources trapped in a loveless marriage with a man who resents her and hurts her. She's thirty now, and the rejection has made her feel ugly and boring. Grigori reinforces that belief. Ilya spends a lot of time hugging his crying mother and telling her how beautiful and special she is. It's not every day, it's not even often, but it isn’t rare either.
Grigori hates her and Alexei imitates his father in all things, which shatters her. She loves her babies so much. And now the only one who loves her back is Ilya. That mentality feeds into it and makes everything worse, obviously, but Irina is too far gone to see it. The distance between Alexei and Ilya grows and grows.
In the end, she hates her life enough to put an end to it. She really couldn't help it. She tried to survive for her Ilyushenka, but he wasn't enough, and that only made her feel like a bad, unworthy mother. Her baby was the most perfect boy in the world. He should have been enough. And he wasn't.
In the end, when she swallows the pills, she only feels tired. There is nothing inside of her that she could give. What use is she to anyone?
Grigori hated her, at the end, but never stopped loving her. Even when he couldn’t look at her without picturing her blood on his hands. When his mind goes, he keeps believing that his clever, beautiful Irina is waiting for him somewhere. He asks Alexei, and the strange man that he doesn’t recognize but looks like his late brother, he asks the young pretty wife he took after her and forgot first, he asks Ilya, who he always remembers knowing but rarely how or why. “Where is Irina Karlovna, where is my pretty wife?” No one dares tell him, until well into his illness, where Alexei snaps that she’s dead. He gets to see his father cry, for the first time, wrecked by sobs. He grieves tremendously, and then forgets an hour later.
Alexei never tells him again.
.
Now, let me be clear, I LOVE Irina Rozanova. I think she's the coolest and the most tragic figure in the Game Changers Universe. This version of her is no less deserving of pity and love than the beautiful white dove that never once made a mistake. The cheating came to me while writing this and honestly, it's not that important in the story. Just a sharper drop on their marriage, that had been sinking for a long time.
I defend women's rights AND wrongs, and she deserved better, always.
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people saying "write what you want to see in the world!" and that's always a good sentiment but this post isn't really about "oh no there's no content for my ship", more the feeling of "i looked up something that i thought was so obvious that surely plenty of more seasoned ao3 perverts would have thought of it already, but apparently i'm the weird one"
For the ask game! Throwing in a few wildcard tags just to make it fun, and I would like you to acknowledge how strong I am for not including a Bobby tag.
🐑 #johnny storm/wyatt wingfoot, #akihiro | daken/johnny storm, #latverian customs, #arranged marriage, #only one bed, #only one fantasticar, #yancy street gang
You're sooooooo strong! I wouldn't have minded a Bobby tag, but still! Super strong 💙
"John."
"I know," he said, because he did. He felt himself blushing under Wyatt's incredulous gaze, but refused to acknowledge it. It would only make it worse. "It's a political thing. With Latveria."
"That doesn't make any sense. He-- sorry, what was your name?"
"Akihiro," answered Daken. He was enjoying this mess way too much, and way too shirtless.
"Akihiro," repeated Wyatt, with a bit of disdainful look. Wyatt was rarely rude, but... Johnny had told him about the bitter end to his former... friendship with the villain, so it only made sense. "Akihiro is not even Latverian, I don't see how their customs would affect him."
"I'm a special guest," he said with a fake apologetic expression. "I'm fucking Doom."
Johnny sputtered at that.
"No you're not!"
"Okay, I'm not. But I'm working for Magneto, and he is, so same difference."
Johnny and Wyatt looked at him, then at each other, and found themselves surprised by how unsurprised they were. It tracked. Johnny had to text Bobby to see if Xavier knew.
"Whatever, the marriage of the Saint Lawrence Comets only lasts a year, so it's not that bad. It's political theater! We have the stuffy ceremony, Doom delivers the weird orb that can destroy reality as we know it to Reed, and in eleven months it will be like it didn't even happen!"
Wyatt looked unconvinced.
"How did people even find out that you spent that night together?"
"They found us naked on the Fantasticar the next morning," snorted Daken. Johnny blushed harder.
"The Yancy Street Gang hacked the locks, okay? That's not my fault, it should have happened to Ben!" Johnny sighed, and looked out of the ornate gilded window. Latveria was so over the top. "It would have been very funny, if it had happened to Ben..."
.
or: Johnny and Akihiro get accidentally married after spending the night together under Latveria's Saint Lawrence Comets. This would be bad even if Johnny wasn't in love with his best friend, but it becomes even worse when Doom announces their royal wedding.
This is all Ben's fault.
A bit too long to be a summary, I know 😂
Thank you so much for playing with meeeeee! This was fun 💙
Hi, Poison! For the ask prompt-- AHA! You sure thought I was going to ask about Johnny! Well, it isn't so! I'm actually going to ask about Roy Harper, as I contain multitudes. If he's taken, then Lois Lane. (If they're both taken then yes, Johnny, I don't contain that many multitudes 🤷♀️)
Lolll Roy was indeed taken so I'll do Lois!
favorite thing about them: She is an absolute lunatic and I never want her to stop. Yes girl jump out of that window. Yes girl confront that villain. I believe in you! Get that scoop!
least favorite thing about them: The way pop culture and the bro side of comics fandom so often gets major things wrong about her. No, she's not too stupid to know Clark is Superman - she was CONSTANTLY trying to prove it for decades. No, she's not being mean for preferring Superman to Clark - during eras when Clark was VERY DELIBERATELY ACTING LIKE A WEASEL as part of his disguise. Learn to read, comics bros!
favorite line: This is the movie version, not the comics, and I don't even like the Donner movies, and this is a test scene from the Donner cut of Superman II so it's not even in the real movie...but there's that great scene where she's trying to prove Clark is Superman so she takes out a gun and shoots him and Reeve does that wonderful physical transition from Clark's body language to Superman's and says "You know, if you were wrong, you could have killed Clark Kent"...and she just smiles and says "With a blank?" QUEEN.
brOTP: JIMMYYYYYY I need more of these two engaging in shenanigans!!!
OTP: Clark, obviously.
nOTP: Poor Lois barely ever gets to date anyone who isn't Clark. I mean. Lex, I guess?
random headcanon: I AM TEAM VIOLET EYES LANE UNTIL I DIE.
unpopular opinion: I don't think she would actually like Bruce all that much.
song i associate with them: I don't know that I have one?
RATED T | WORDCOUNT 6K | TW: Shootings, home invasions, vomiting, hospitals, outings, homophobia
or…hollanov get outed because of a home invasion, and the shooting isn’t even the worst part of ilya’s year! i wrote this in a fugue state so if u see any mistakes….no u dont <3
The officer sitting across from Shane looks far from sympathetic. It might worry him, if he wasn't so busy staring at the flecks of maroon currently buried beneath his fingernails.
"Why were you at Rozanov's apartment, Mr. Hollander?"
Shane blinks. "What?"
"Why," The officer repeats, leaning forward, "Were you at his apartment? You have to admit, it's pretty strange to—"
"We're together." Shane interrupts, tone flat. It doesn't make his stomach churn to say it out loud. It doesn't make him want to shrink into the uncomfortable plastic chair he's sitting in. "We had a three-day stretch with no games, so I was staying with him."
The officer bristles. He has a nametag, but Shane has no interest in reading it. He seems, overall, unconvinced. Shane supposes if he was a cop who was clearly awful at his job and stuck on the night shift, he'd probably be just as miserable.
"Okay," He sighs, "Let's start again. Tell us what happened, from the beginning."
It's a waste of time. Shane is making bad decisions, right now, this much he knows; he's talking to cops in a tiny detainment room in the hospital, with no lawyer, without his mom, without his agent. None of this is smart. He's outed himself to about a thousand people over the past three hours, and none of it fucking matters, because Ilya could have died.
Shane looks back at the dried blood on his hands. It's staining his t-shirt, too, and his sweatpants. No-one has offered him a change of clothes or even a towelette to clean his hands. It's evidence, says the little voice in the back of his head that sounds like Rose's true crime podcasts, if Ilya dies, they'll need it as evidence.
If Ilya dies, it might be all he has left of him. His blood, on his hands. Shane is struck by a vision of himself in forty years, old and alone and still covered in the blood he couldn't bring himself to wash off.
"Mr. Hollander," The officer prompts. Shane resists the urge to roll his eyes. "From the beginning again, please."
"Okay, uh. There was some noise, I woke up. It's not, like, weird for Ilya to be up in the night, he has trouble sleeping, sometimes. I figured maybe he, like, fucking fell, or something, I don't know. Tripped, maybe. It was like a, I don't know, a crashing sound?"
Shane swallows. His voice is still hoarse, throat stripped raw from crying and yelling and more fucking crying. Another added humiliation to the pile, the pictures he knows people took of him in the emergency room, tears and snot congealing on his face, blood staining his hands. He takes a deep breath, and continues.
"I got out of bed and went downstairs— It's like a duplex, kind of, but more open-plan. The kitchen is downstairs, and it's, y'know, I heard more noise, but it sounded like arguing. I saw Ilya, and I saw the fucking asshole, y'know, in a fucking ski mask. He was holding a gun and I guess he freaked when he saw me 'cause he fucking— Um. Fuck, sorry."
Shane can see it, almost as if it were happening right in front of him, right there in the hospital. Ilya, shirtless and dishevelled and standing a few feet away from this strange person invading their bubble. The light of the refridgerator hitting the dark metal of the gun, and Shane's mouth moving— Did he say something? What did he say? It doesn't matter, now. The shot rang out, and Shane was grabbing one of the few sticks Ilya keeps mounted on a shelf in the entryway because it impresses the puck bunnies and hitting the guy over the head with it.
A standard skull with no helmet usually doesn't fare so well against a Shane Hollander slapshot. This guy was still blinking the last time Shane saw him, which means he got off lucky.
"Yeah, uh. So, y'know, he got spooked and the gun went off and Ilya, um, he kind of, like, held onto the counter for a minute? Like, he has this really nice, um, marble kitchen island. It's Italian, or something, he had it imported. He wants to, like, move it with him when he— It doesn't matter. Uh, then he went down. Like, to the floor. And I knocked the guy out with one of his exhibition sticks. and called 911."
The officer nods, face carefully blank. "You seem to know a lot about Mr. Rozanov's property."
Shane wants to laugh. He can't hold it in, the breathless half-sigh of disbelief that bubbles up in response to this fucking cop's inability to hear what Shane is telling him. If he'd have known that outing himself would be this fucking hard, he might not have been so careful. He might have let Ilya put his name down as his official next of kin.
"Yes, fuck, I know a lot about Ilya's fucking apartment," Shane snaps, "Jesus fucking Christ. I spend half my free fucking time there."
The officer opens his mouth, brows furrowed, and for a brief, hysterical moment, Shane thinks he might have to endure being scolded by this dumb fucking American cop.
Luckily, or unluckily, the door opens before any words can leave his mouth, and another cop appears. She gestures for the officer to leave, and he does, without a word to Shane. Which is fine. He doesn't need an explanation. He doesn't need medical attention, or an update on his boyfriend, or for literally anyone to believe the secret he's been keeping so tenderly and so carefully for the past decade of his life.
He stews on this while the cops talk outside, the unjustness of it all, the blood on his shirt, the way Ilya was shaking. It was blood loss, Shane thinks, and not fear. Ilya is so rarely scared of anything, except the call of a loon on a balmy summer night and the concept of ending his life like his mother did. Did it ever occur to him that someone else would try to end it instead?
Shane thinks of the split-second before the intruder realised he was there, meeting Ilya's eyes over the counter, the ocean blue and his pinpoint pupils. And then the intruder muttering something, panicked, and the shot.
It's not like he's never seen or heard a gun go off before. Shane spent most of his childhood either on the ice or in the woods. He didn't hunt with his dad and his friends because he was busy skating, not out of any ethical or moral dispute. Maybe if he thought on it hard enough it would have turned his stomach, but he just didn't give it any thought. They had hunting rifles at the cottage he grew up in. He knows the feeling of cold metal warmed by his skin recoiling after a shot.
Ilya hadn't looked like a frightened deer. His jaw was tense, gaze set, staring down this faceless man and his stupid American weapon. Daring him to leave or shoot. Russian roulette, of a kind, because only one of them knew how many bullets were in the chamber.
The wastepaper basket is close enough that Shane manages to snag it with two fingers and drag it closer before he vomits up his remaining stomach contents.
———————————————————————————
[ TRANSCRIPT - 911 BOSTON DISPATCH - 15/02/2018 01:34:56 AM ]
DISPATCH: 911, what's your emergency?
CALLER: Um, my boyfriend, he's— He's bleeding really bad, he's been shot, and… God, I don't—
DISPATCH: Okay, sir, is he breathing?
CALLER: Yeah, yeah, he's breathing. He's… Fuck, Ilya, open your eyes. You need to stay awake, okay? It's all okay, I got you, I—
DISPATCH: Sir, where is the injury?
CALLER: Um, like, his hip? Near his hip? I don't— Sorry, baby, sorry, I just— I'm putting pressure on it, is that…
DISPATCH: That's exactly right, sir. If there are any towels near, gauze, or clean clothes, I need you to put them over the wound and press down as hard as you can. Okay?
CALLER: Yeah, yeah, I have— We're in the kitchen, I have, like, towels. There's a lot of blood, there's— Is that, I mean, fuck—
[SLIGHT CLATTERING; MUMBLING]
DISPATCH: Is there someone else at the scene? Are you in immediate danger?
CALLER: No, no. I mean, yeah, there's— Um, a guy broke into my boyfriend's apartment and he's, he shot him. But I knocked him out.
DISPATCH: Alright, sir, I'm dispatching police along with the ambulance. Can you confirm your address, please?
CALLER: Yeah, uh, it's [REDACTED - REDACTED - REDACTED] and the door code is [REDACTED]. Fuck. You can't die, okay? I don't care if it's fucking boring to say that, you need to—
DISPATCH: Is the patient still breathing?
CALLER: Uh-huh.
DISPATCH: What's your name, sir?
CALLER: Uh, Shane. Fuck, sorry.
DISPATCH: That's okay, Shane, you're doing great. I need you to take some deep breaths for me, but keep pressure on those towels.
CALLER [TEARFUL]: I don't want to hurt him. Ilya, can you— Hi, baby, fuck. God. It's okay, it's okay, you're okay. You need to keep your eyes open, asshole.
DISPATCH: I know, but it's better to hurt him a little now and keep him alive in the long run. I promise it's the right thing to do.
CALLER: I think he's passing out, fuck, what do I— Ilya. Wake the fuck up. Shit. You keep a stick out here but we need the salts, huh? I know, baby, I'm sorry. I need to keep my hand there, okay?
DISPATCH: Sir, are there drugs on the premises?
CALLER: Drugs, what— No, fuck, no, we're, uh, we're hockey players. Smelling salts, they… It's just a hockey thing.
DISPATCH: Alright, Shane, help is near. I want you to stay on the line with me until the EMTs are in your line of sight, okay?
CALLER: Okay.
[INDISTINCT MUMBLING]
CALLER: It's not Valentines day anymore, idiot, it's past midnight— Ilya. Hey. I know, I'm sorry, I know it hurts, I just— Oh, thank fuck, I think that’s them— Yeah, hi—
———————————————————————————
Eventually, they clear him of all suspicion. The phrasing of it almost makes Shane laugh, because they'd actually thought that he would try and kill Ilya Rozanov. That he couldn't handle playing against him, he couldn't handle the rivalry, he couldn't possibly handle loving him.
It's only then that Shane realises he's alone, in Boston, with no clue who to call. Maybe he should have expected that his mom would make the decision for him.
"We're on our way," She says, as soon as Shane picks up the phone. It's on 23% charge, and he doesn't have a charger with him. He doesn't have anything with him, except Ilya's necklace, stuffed in the pocket of his blood-stained sweats. The EMTS had cut it off him. "Shane, baby, what hospital are you at?"
"Boston General."
"Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Okay, sweetheart. Who are you with?"
Shane blinks. Maybe it's the safety of his mom's voice, or maybe it's the shock of the evening and the adrenaline wearing thin, but his vision is starting to tunnel.
"Ilya's in surgery," Shane says, which might answer her question. Probably not, by the noise of discontent she makes.
"Who are you with? Is anyone with you?"
He blinks again, tries to will himself to stay in the present moment. "No. No, mom, I'm in Boston."
It's only Ilya. He's the only person I want to see. He's the only person I know in Boston, because we're so fucking good at keeping our secret. It's still so new. It's still so fragile. Who else could know? Who could he introduce me to?
"His coach is on the way, I think," Shane says, "I think he's his emergency contact."
On the other end of the line, his mom makes a noise.
"What?"
"It's— I'm his emergenct contact," She says, and the line crackles slightly. He can hear his dad say something in the background, but it's muffled, the sound of the road and the car humming over him, "He didn't tell you?"
"No?"
"I suggested it, after that hit in LA. You were so scared, and… Well. He said it would make sense, with the charity, and all his family being in Russia. No-one would think twice, not really, because…"
She keeps talking, her voice a steady, comforting ebb-and-flow on the other end of the line, but Shane tunes it out. Ilya had changed his emergency contact from his coach to Shane's mother. He'd written the words Yuna Hollander on that stupid fucking form.
And why wouldn't he tell him? His mom had sounded confused, when she asked. But Shane knows. Ilya didn't tell him because he would have freaked out, called it reckless, told him to change it back. He would have made him remove his one link to Shane, would have taken away the only reason Shane is even allowed in the fucking hospital right now.
The guilt is heavy, and buries deep in Shane's unsettled stomach. All the hiding, the stupid, convoluted plans and expectations of keeping each other secret until they retire, it all feels so ridiculous. Anything can happen, didn't he know that, before? If Ilya hadn't been shot in a home invasion, they could've been in a car accident together. Shane's plane could have crashed on the way home from Boston. And then what?
It doesn't bear thinking about. His mom is still talking.
"Are you close?" Shane interrupts, feeling all of twelve years old again. He feels so fucking small, a far cry from the 200lb hockey player who bodied an intruder with a slapshot to the skull.
"Yeah, sweetheart. Twenty minutes, tops. Your dad is driving, we got on the first flight."
Twenty minutes. He can do twenty minutes.
———————————————————————————
A very kind nurse checks him over and gives him a clean bill of health, which Shane had expected; the guy had barely managed to land a hit on him before he was on the ground. Shane knows what they're going to say, but he approaches the nurse's station anyway.
"Is there—"
"Mr. Hollander," The head nurse, Diane, levels him with a stern look. "I cannot tell you anything about Mr. Rozanov's status at this time."
"I know, but—"
"No buts. I can only release medical information to family members."
It's not unkind, but it stings nonetheless. He is Ilya's family, why is that so hard to believe? Why does he feel like he's repeatedly slamming his head against a brick fucking wall? Surely Diane can see the words Yuna Hollander as his next of kin, surely she can put two and two together—
"Shane!"
He's not sure why he turns; Shane doesn't recognise the voice calling his name, but still, his body moves like a marionette, going where he's called. As soon as he moves, a short string of flashes bounce off the white walls of the ER.
"Shane, can you tell us why you were at Rozanov's apartment?"
Oh. Oh, it's a journalist. Maybe journalist is too generous of a title to give to this fucking sleazeball, this asshole who would interrupt the goings-on of a fucking hospital to get, what? A picture of Shane in fucking blood-stained sweatpants? A picture of him crying, and dishevelled, with flecks of blood still sticking stubbornly to his neck and his chin?
He's had enough violence for one night. The urge to lunge forward and rip the camera from the man's hands, smash it into his head and leave them both shattered on the ugly linoleum floor is strong. But the hospital's security guards are strnoger, and they leap into action, manhandling him out of the door as he continues to yell questions in Shane's direction.
———————————————————————————
OFFICIAL STATEMENT ON CAPTAIN ILYA ROZANOV - BOSTON BEARS
@NHLBears | 15th Febrary 2018 | by Jason Lasso, Head of Communications
THE BOSTON BEARS ARE SADDENED to confirm that our captain Ilya Rozanov, #81, was hospitalised in the early hours of this morning following a break-in at his home. The intruder has been apprehended and is being held on suspicion of breaking and entering; attempted murder.
The Bears organisation would like to extend their deepest thanks to Boston's emergency services for their swift and skilled actions, and ask that the fans and media grant the Rozanov family privacy during this difficult time.
More information will be provided as the case progresses. In the meantime, the Bears encourage any fans looking to help to make a donation to captain Rozanov's charity, The Irina Foundation. Information on donations can be found at TheIrinaFoundation.org/donations/how-to-donat…
Alternate captain Cliff Marlow will take on the captaincy in Rozanov's absence. For more information on roster changes see NHL.com/bears/roster/18-19-season-updates-a…
This is an ongoing story. Refresh your browser for updates. Press and media requests: NHL.com/bears/press-and-media-reque…
———————————————————————————
Shane often finds himself overwhelmed with gratitude for his mom, but this might just take the cake. Yuna Hollander hits Boston General like a fucking hurricane, and Shane know he’s safe in the eye of the storm.
"They didn't give you a change of clothes?" She asks, horrified and holding Shane by the shoulders. Her eyes rake over the dried blood on his shirt, cataloguing every fleck of deep red. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she's wearing one of his dad's McGill sweaters and a pair of crisp blue jeans. He doesn't want to get blood on her clothes, so Shane shrugs gently out of her grip.
"I don't know," He shrugs; his head feels like it's full of cotton wool. "The cops…"
Her eyebrows shoot up.
"Shane. Did you talk to the police?"
Shane nods. "Yeah, they thought I…"
"Without a lawyer?"
Now that his mom is saying it out loud, well, yeah. He should have had a lawyer. They should have offered him some kind of help, he thinks, but the police in America aren't known for being gracious and understanding, especially to people who aren't white.
He shakes his head.
"Sweetheart," His mom says, and suddenly Shane feels like his heart is breaking. Everything collapses in on itself, all at once; the fear, the anxiety, the panic, the deep, deep sadness. The guilt. The knowledge that, when all of the dust settles, everyone will know.
He isn't sure how it happens, but Shane blinks and his eyes are wet, his cheeks are wet, and his face is buried in his mom's shoulder.
"Oh, honey," She sighs, her hand resting gently on the back of his head, "Shaney. It'll be okay, honey, I promise."
Shane wants to let his mother's comfort wash over him, but all he can think about is how Ilya will never get the same privilige.
The next two hours consist of watching her handle things that Shane had only managed to stumble into. She dresses down the two officers who had interviewed him, demanding any footage of audio recordings be sent to his legal teams and making it clear that she'll be submitting a formal complaint to their superiors. She talks to the doctors and nurses, she gets Shane a change of clothes and somewhere private to sit and stew, she even calls Ilya's fucking coach.
"Yes, I work with him on the Foundation," She says, tone clipped and so professional that Shane is almost convinced, despite obviously knowing the truth of the matter, "Well, it's a sensitive matter right now, and I…"
The conversation descends into hockey talk, phrases like I wouldn't want to step on any agency toes and we'll know more when he's out of surgery, this is just a courtesy call, so Shane lets his head drop back against the plush couch of the VIP waiting room.
American hospitals are a trip.
The room, which his mom had managed to arrange within half an hour of getting there, is bathed in low-light from strategically placed lamps on the walls. There are a few luxurious couches, a wide coffee table with some magazines and art books, and a mini-fridge stocked with water and juice.
He can't sleep, but Shane does close his eyes, and tries to take some deep breaths. He knows he should be concerned about his career, about Ilya's career, about the entire world knowing he's gay when he could only admit it to himself a matter of months ago. But Shane just can't bring himself to worry about anything but Ilya.
The EMTs said the shot wasn't too bad, it didn't hit any bone or arteries, it didn't look like the bullet had gotten stuck or lost in the expanse of Ilya's body. The surgery is mostly just a precaution, checking for any further internal damage and making sure that his muscles and ligaments are intact.
I understand that you can't take any calls right now. I just wanted to express how happy I am that you're okay, and let you know that I'm here when you want to talk strategy. I've spoken briefly with Yuna, but wanted to keep you in the loop.
No word from the Voyageurs just yet, but considering how your coming out went, I don't have high hopes of a positive reception. I'll be keeping an eye on press and reporting, and we're doing our best to get any pictures of you in the emergency room taken down.
Take care,
Farah
———————————————————————————
It's all over social media, because of course it is.
Shane didn't expect anything less, not really, but now the sun is up, and his phone is fully charged, and Ilya is safe and well and sleeping. It all feels scarily real, in the light of day. He cycles between the same four apps: Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, and the scarily silent Voyageurs groupchat.
The first three are full of conspiracy theories that, yes, Shane had tried to kill his rival. Shane took a deal with Moscow to eliminate Ilya after consistently poor national tournament showings. Or Shane was the victim, lured to Ilya's apartment and forced to wrestle the gun from his hands. These disgust him, but they leave their careers salvageable.
Then the 911 call leaks, which blows any thoughts of salvageable or workable out of the water.
Ilya is a few inches away from him, sleeping peacefully in a well-outfitted hospital bed. He doesn't look grey, or even sick; just tired, deep circles beneath his eyes, a large graze starting to purple beneath the skin of his cheek where he hit the tiled kitchen floor. It's only under the layers of hospital blankets that they'll find any evidence of injury, aside from the thin cannula beneath his nose pumping oxygen, the matching wire in his wrist administering pain medication.
The call had leaked, initially, through TMZ, if he can even really call it a leak— Apparently, 911 calls are public record in America, and anyone good enough at lying or with enough money to bargain can get their hands on them.
He knows that no good can come from listening to it, but the curiosity is almost overwhelming. Shane was horrified to realise, initially, that he can't actually remember what he said on the call. He can't even remember the dispatcher's voice; Only how small Ilya had looked, curled on his kitchen floor, blood on his hands. The deep, piercing guilt he'd felt when he'd pressed down on the wound and Ilya had made a small, wounded noise.
Shane swallows, puts on earbud in, and presses play.
It's an instant punch in the gut. The dispatcher, calm and cool, and the immediate hollowed-out panic in his own voice. He almost doesn't recognise himself, breathing heavily, with Ilya's mumbles in the background. The first words he says are my boyfriend. And then, a little later, Ilya, baby, open your eyes.
Boyfriend, Ilya, baby. Shane signed his own death certificate, except, he didn't. He was doing what he had to do to keep Ilya alive, to keep him comforted. His boyfriend, the man he loves. Shane couldn't let him lay there bleeding and say It's okay, coworker, I'll hold you at arm's length until the ambulance arrives.
The Ilya on the call makes a wheezing, raspy sound at the same that Ilya in the flesh clamps his fingers down around Shane's wrist.
Shane startles so hard he loses an earbud, his phone clattering to the ground in his attempts to pause the recording.
"Oh, fuck," He spits, but he can't suppress the grin that splits his features. Ilya, awake, and smiling at him mischievously, sleep-soft around the edges. "Asshole. You scared the shit out of me."
"Me? Asshole?" Ilya's voice is only slightly hoarse around the edges; no worse off than Shane was after his police interview. "I scare you?"
"Really bad," Shane admits, and finds he isn't just talking about his wrist-grabbing. He leaves his phone and earbud abandoned on the floor, and instead shuffles the uncomfortable chair closer to the bed. Ilya keeps his hand wrapped around Shane's wrist, his touch warm and grounding as he settles beside him. "Don't ever go that again."
"It's okay," Shane confirms. He tries to smile confidently, but he can feel the expression wavering on his cheeks. Ilya is fine, physically, as fine as anyone can be with a bullet hole in them. "The doctor was telling my mom that they can discharge you tomorrow, as long as you have someone to go home with."
"Mm." Ilya narrows his eyes as he thinks this over. "I will have to hire sexy nurse, hm? For sponge baths?"
"You can shower like a normal person."
"Ah, are you offering?"
"We can go to the cottage," Shane offers, and tries to sound like he hasn't had this plan prepared since the words release him tomorrow were uttered by his doctor. "You'll be out for the rest of the season, probably, which is fine. It's February, so you have time to recover before pre-season. And your physio and stuff, we can get that transferred to a hospital closer in Ottawa, or even have, like, someone come to the cottage. And—"
"Hollander. Shane. Breathe, sweetheart."
Shane isn't quite sure how to confidently breathe on his own, yet. He can feel his face flushing with the combined embarrassment of just assuming that Ilya would want to recover with him at the cottage and the physical exertion of saying so many words with such little breath.
Instead of addressing any of this, he pulls Ilya's hand into his own and presses his lips lightly to his grazed knuckles.
"Sorry," Shane mutters against the broken skin, "You probably want to stay in Boston, and get, like, actual care from—"
"No, no. I want to go to the cottage. Is nice, quiet. And you are very good nurse, I think."
"But?" Shane asks, because he can sense it; the apprehension. Something is making Ilya hesitate. He lays Ilya's palm flat against his cheek, warm in his own hands.
"Sweetheart, season is over for me, I think," Ilya says, gentle, like Shane is the one laying injured in a hospital bed, "But not you."
For a second, the words don't land. Shane squints down at him, confused, before he remembers. Yes, technically, Shane should be in Montreal tonight. He has a game. He has a roadie coming up along the East coast.
He's shaking his head before the thought is even finished forming. "No, I don't— I'm not even thinking about hockey right now, Ilya. I'm not… That's not important. You're important."
Shane doesn't miss the way Ilya's eyes widen slightly, but it's so fast and he recovers so quickly that he doesn't have time to decipher whether or not it was disbelief, or worse.
"Hollander, you cannot say things like this when I am on drugs," Ilya moans, overdramatic and whiny. Still, it makes Shane smile. Everything about him makes Shane smile. "Is too romantic. Everyone will see that we are in love."
The smile drops from Shane's face immediately.
"Um," He says, because he doesn't know what else he can say. Ilya was kidding, obviously; he has no reason to believe that anyone knows anything more than what they've told people. It wouldn't be out of the ordinary for Shane to visit him in the hospital, not when they own a charity together, not when they have such a storied history.
How can he tell Ilya that he's ruined his life? You'll never go home because of me. The entire world knows our secret because I couldn't keep it together on the phone.
"You are mad," Ilya guesses, after a few seconds of Shane struggling with silence, "Because I put Yuna down as my emergency call."
"What? No. No, no, baby, I'm not fucking mad. Jesus, thank God you did, I mean… They wouldn't tell me anything. When we got here, they just— They acted like it didn't matter. Even when I told them, they wouldn't—"
For the hundredth time in the past 24-hours, Shane realises he's crying again, tears wetting his cheeks and pooling in the cupped palm of Ilya's hand.
"Fuck," He sniffs, "Sorry. I shouldn't be the one crying. I'm so fucking sorry, Ilya."
"Sorry?" Ilya frowns. There's a hint of apprehension in his tone, like somehow he already knows how badly Shane has fucked up. "Why?"
"Everyone knows. About us. I'm so fucking sorry, I just—"
"Shane, sweetheart, slow down, please."
"I…" For the first time since this entire fucking ordeal started, the words actually catch in Shane's throat. And isn't that ironic? The only person he can't seem to say it outright to is the only person who knew the whole time, and loved him through it anyway. "Um. The 911 call leaked, and I called you my boyfriend. And said your name. And, there are, I mean, I guess some people got pictures of me in the ER when you were in surgery, so… Yeah. Everyone knows."
Ilya is quiet for a few long, stretching seconds, and Shane is willing to bet that if he were the one hooked up to the heart monitor, it'd be just one, long beep. A flatline, his mind offers the term out of nowhere, making him cringe.
"Okay," Ilya says, after a few more seconds of silence. There's something unreadable in his expression, flat and calm like the cottage lake in the morning. "But you are okay? He didn't… You are not hurt?"
Shane frowns. "What? No, no, he didn't— He didn't even touch me."
Just like that, Ilya's expression resolves itself. He still seems shaken, but that's to be expected. This could have massive fucking consequences for him, for his visa, for the Russia of it all. As far as Shane knows, Ilya's agent and his manager are both Russian, and based in Moscow. This news breaking could, and likely will, change Ilya's entire life.
"Shane," Ilya says, and pulls him in closer. Shane goes willingly, draping himself over the bedrail and ignoring the uncomfortable press of the metal into his ribs. It's more important right now to settle his head on Ilya's chest, as well as he possibly can, and listen to his steady heartbeat. "I am okay, you are okay. The rest is very fucking scary, yes, but… I think, maybe not as scary as random guy trying to shoot you?"
He can hear the smile in Ilya's voice, so Shane lets himself huff out a breathy laugh. If you'd asked him a few months ago, he might have had a different answer, but it turns out that getting outed isn't actually as scary as a man in your home with a gun.
Maybe he'll feel differently again, when they're forced to re-enter the real world and aren't insulated by the lingering fear of losing each other and the too-bright hospital room. But right now Ilya's hand is warm and heavy on the crown of Shane's head, his heartbeat strong and steady in his chest.
"We'll figure it out." Shane agrees, with more conviction that he actually feels.
Following the recent news and police activity surrounding your alleged homosexual activity, you have been found in breach of your contract with Shadow Ice Representation (par. 34, sec. C4, Morality Clause For All Representatives).
While we have enjoyed our work together, myself and Leonora are no longer able to represent you as a client. In recognition of the situation you were put in, you will not be required to pay over the 2.5% earnings cap and your contract with us is now considered void.
We wish you the best in your future endeavours and request that any further communication be made through our legal team: [email protected]
Best wishes for your recovery,
Vasily & Leonora,
Shadow Ice Representation
—
[ The translation isn't perfect but I did my best. Show this to your mother, and see what she says.
Sveta ]
———————————————————————————
The doctor is more than happy to dischage Ilya into Shane's care. Ilya is less enthused.
"You need to play, Shane."
"I don't want to play!"
"I do. I wish I could fucking play."
"Oh," Shane scoffs, rolling his eyes, "Please. You'll be back on the ice by June, we both know it. Just let me take care of you until then."
Ilya's oceanwater eyes search Shane's face, but Shane has no clue what for. He's being as open and honest as he can be, feels flayed raw, exposed and vulnerable. Ilya is maybe the only person on earth who can pull this kind of honest from him.
Only, right now, it seems like it's not enough.
"You feel guilty?" Ilya asks, eventually, but it sounds more like a demand. "You think you owe me this? I can't play, you can't play?"
It's bad form to yell at your boyfriend when he's in a hospital bed; even in Shane's limited experience, he knows this. But he can't help the incredulous bark of a laugh that leaves him when he actually processes Ilya's words.
"No, you asshole! I want to take care of you because I fucking love you, Jesus. I'm not— I'm not trying to work off some fucking debt until I can play again. I don't want to be on the ice without you."
Ilya stares at him for a second, slack-jawed, before snapping his mouth shut. And, fuck, his eyes are watery, and Shane—
"I'm sorry," He says, immediately, "I didn't… I don't want to fight. Or yell. I just want you to be okay. I want to help you get there. Okay?"
He knows, deep down, that Ilya is right. Not about feeling obligated, or anything like that, but he does have to play. His contract has nothing in it about what to do when your secret boyfriend gets shot in front of you. He knows that his mom called the front office that morning, spoke to multiple Voyageurs reps about damage control and police presence and rumours.
She hasn't told him the full extent of what they talked about yet, but her jaw was tight when she left the tiny conference room she'd been borrowing from the hospital, and she wouldn't quite meet his eyes.
It's not important. He's the best player in the fucking league. If Montreal doesn't want him because he's fucking a man, or because he wants to take care of the man he loves after he almost fucking died, he'll find another team. Shane doesn't quite believe it, yet, but he hopes that if he repeats it enough it'll start to sound true.
"Please," Shane adds, when Ilya stays quiet. "Just… I'll stay with you in Boston, if you don't want the cottage, I only suggested that because of the privacy."
"The cottage is not the issue," Ilya sniffs, which sends a wave of unexpected relief over Shane. He knows that Ilya loves it there, so much so that it only took two weeks to cement it into Shane's mind as their place. It's nice to hear it from him, though. "This is your nightmare, Shane. I do not want to be the reason it gets worse. I can look after myself until the season is over."
"This was my nightmare," Shane admits, sitting down on the edge of the thin mattress. Ilya reaches out immediately, tangling their hands together. "But then, I mean— I watched you get shot, Ilya. I was so fucking scared. All I could think about was if… If the worst happened, and no-one knew, and I would… It would kill me, too. I didn't even think about hockey. I was only thinking about you. Hockey doesn't fucking matter."
Ilya raises an eyebrow, drawing a wet laugh from Shane.
"Okay, hockey matters," He concedes, tightening his grip around Ilya's broad, strong hands. "It matters a whole fucking lot. But you matter more. Okay? If it's a choice between playing the rest of the season and making sure you're okay, helping you get to whatever okay is, then it's not a fucking choice. It's you. We'll figure the rest out."
Ilya's nose twitches in the way it does when he's trying not to cry; a movement that Shane is thrilled to notice, and that makes him want to lurch forward and kiss him until he forgets what crying even is.
He shouldn't, though, while his abdomen is still tender. That can wait. They have all of spring, and summer, too. An unprecedented amount of time in the palm of their hands, if Ilya will only hold his hand out for it.
"Okay," He says, after a few more seconds of silence. His voice is thick and shaky, pale eyelashes darkened and clumped together from unshed tears, "Fuck, Hollander. You are romantic hero now, da? My knight in ugly Voyageurs jersey?"
Shane rolls his eyes, but when the doctor comes back with Yuna in tow, Ilya signs all the discharge papers presented to him.
——————————————
tag list: @wannabetonthat @ilyasmole @sofa-king-lame @hollanovscuckchair hope yall enjoyed part one <3 more angst to come hehe
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I want to boost everything this person has said and add on.
The reason I call myself a tomboy now, despite it being seen as a childish word and having had someone swear at me over it because ‘tHeRe’S nO suCh thInG as BoY thInGs anD giRL thIngS sHut uP’ is because I couldn’t call myself that or be like that when I was a kid. It was seen as a negative thing and I was already bullied enough. “Looking like a boy” was the worst thing that could happen to a girl.
And I’m not even 26 yet. We aren’t talking 30+ years ago, we are talking 2000s and even 2010s. It’s only since trans people have become more accepted in the past few years that gender nonconformity has too.
And the people who helped me accept my gender nonconformity more than anyone else? Were trans people. They taught me, “there’s nothing wrong with how you feel. You’re still a valid woman no matter what you wear, how you have your hair or what you’re into ❤️”
And don’t even get me started on how people treat gender nonconforming men. JK Rowling has a lot of nerve to be like “uwu boys can wear dresses and only us gendercrits accept that!” when she has, even in recent works, made femininity in men a negative trait, as well as making masculinity in women a negative trait also.
A lot of people still don’t accept gnc people even now. Just last year I had someone tell me they’d never let their daughter “dress like a boy”, and I’m always terrified to walk into a bathroom in case the next JK Rowling is in there, sees my gender expression and pepper sprays me or worse.
“There’s no such thing as boy things and girl things.” I don’t need to be told that and I’m sure 99% of trans people also don’t need to be told that. Tell that to the society that hates us both instead of actively encouraging that hate.
Gonna point out the og tweet thread is now full of terfs saying that life was better for gay people in the fucking 80s, that it was super easy for them to be a tomboy in the 70s and 80s and therefore it must have been that way for everyone, and that it was totally acceptable to be a gnc gay person in the 80s! 🤪
They’re rewriting history as we speak to try to argue trans acceptance is making it harder to be gay and gnc for youth than it was to be gay in the 80s. This is a blatant lie.
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