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This Is So Wholesome - Blog Posts
I redid this older comic I made for my storytelling class based on this post. Have some cute wlw love in your day.
It’s hard, if I had more free time I could make it so pretty, this is what I could throw together for the assignment.
Lemme tell you a gay little story about an eagle.
Our town (~9,000 people) has a couple garages, but there's a big one on the main drag. My family has been going there for decades. I drive past it every day.
There used to be a huge pine tree on the corner of their lot, but last year it became a hazard and had to be taken down.
Shortly thereafter I drive by and see they've hired a guy to chainsaw sculpt the stump into a bald eagle.
Birds own my heart, but nationalism makes me twitchy. I withhold outright condemnation of the eagle, but I'm skeptical. (The original owner—an objectively Good Dude—sold the business to a younger couple a few years ago, and I don't have any knowledge of their whole deal.)
Then it turns out someone on staff is really into making costumes for the eagle. Every holiday. Every month. Stuffed turkey, witch costume, menorah headpiece, bunny ears. These people love to dress their bird.
The changing of the eagle suit becomes a source of joy every time I drive through town.
Until June, when the eagle is bare.
Now look, maybe I'm expecting too much asking my garage to celebrate Pride. But this is a small town. Every time I drive by that stupid eagle—this thing that has previously brought me so much joy—I feel hurt. I feel reminded that there are plenty of people in my liberal bubble who don't consider my community worthy of celebration. I drive to work, I feel bad. I drive home, I feel bad. The eagle is mocking me.
Then my A/C quits working.
So I book an appointent to bring my car in—and realize what I have to do.
I pick all this up at a thrift store for under ten bucks. I print the shirt with some weird heat-transfer fabric crayons I find in a cupboard. I loop gold elastic around the sunglasses and pray they'll fit on the eagle's head. (It is also important to draw your attention to the price of the feather boa.)
(Nice.)
My reasoning is thus: if I show up with a complete costume ready to go, someone will have to look me in the eye and say "We don't believe in that," at which point I'll be finding a new garage. But if they let me dress the eagle, then people in town get to have the joy I've been missing since the start of the month.
I listen to a lot of hype-up jams on my way over. I hate confrontation. I also don't wanna have to find another garage. I want to believe that this decision isn't actively antagonistic, but I'm not particularly hopeful.
I talk through the A/C issue with the guy at the desk, hand over my keys, then take a deep breath.
"Who's in charge of the eagle?"
"Oh, that's all Dylan. Second bay from the end."
I walk down the row of hydraulic lifts and find a disarmingly smiley middle-aged man pouring fluid through a funnel. I introduce myself and explain that, since the Pride parade is this Sunday and the eagle seems to be missing a costume, I have taken the liberty of making one myself, and can I get his blessing to go put it on?
Dylan grins this absolutely giant grin and goes
"Oh hell yeah."
So that's what's up now.
Happy Pride.
It's radioapple week, and here's my contribution to Day 7, prompt: Beach! 🫶💗
Someone Who Answers
Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader
Summary: A small drabble where the Reader calls Natasha in the middle of the night.
Words: 600
You weren’t sure how long it had been since someone had answered your calls or texts.
It wasn’t like you didn’t have any friends. You had plenty. They were just busy with family, and life, and work. You were happy for them. Truly. You just wanted to talk to someone. You needed someone. And they left you with no one.
No one, except for Natasha Romanoff.
Even though you had her number in your phone, even though she said, all those years ago when she’d met you during some secret operation, that you could call her at any time, you had never done anything more than glance at the number. After all, Natasha was a very, very important woman. She had better things to do. Like save the world, or kill corrupt politicians, or clean her guns, or whatever the hell the Black Widow did in her free time.
You did everything you could to not call. You went through every possible excuse. She was working, she was saving the world, she was with a friend, she was practicing martial arts. All of them fell flat when, in the middle of the night, you found yourself aching for connection, however slight.
So, despite everything, you pulled your phone out, found the number, and pressed “Call.”
The second you pressed the button, you regretted it. Your heart felt to the pit of your stomach, your breath quickened, and your palms turned sweaty. The phone rang once. You pulled the phone away, preparing to hang up. The phone rang twice. You stared at the screen, waiting for something. You weren’t sure what for. Nothing happened, you didn’t get any signal, so you reached for the “End Call” button. But before you could press the button, a voice interrupted you:
“How did you get this number?”
You instantly brought the phone back up to your ear, a smile breaking free onto your lips. Oh, how amazing it was to hear someone speaking to you. Even if said person seemed less than enthused.
You took in a deep breath and forced the words out, “You gave it to me.”
“Oh,” Natasha said, and the harshness faded from her voice. “The humanities consultant for the Paris mission.”
“Uh, yes,” you said. You barely understood what had happened. All you could remember was that you were brought into this tiny room, sat down with Natasha, and she had you tell her about a remote, cut-off culture just East of Paris. Those twenty minutes were the highlight of your career. “Sorry I called you. It’s really late.”
“I’m in Cyprus,” Natasha said, and you hummed. It was a waste even wondering why she was on the other side of the world. You’d never learn, anyway.
“Good morning, then.”
“Thank you,” she said, then a few moments later asked, “Why did you call? Do you need something?”
“No, I’m fine,” you said. After a few breaths, you mustered up the courage to say, “I just wanted to talk.”
There was a pause on the other end. You thought she had hung up or simply couldn’t bother responding, but she ended up saying, “I’m free for the next hour. We can talk.”
And that was exactly what you did. It felt amazing. Not only to talk to someone, but to talk to someone who seemed so full of stories and complexities as Natasha was amazing. Sure, some of the stories veered on the edge of being dark or unbelievable, but that didn’t bother you. You had known what you were getting into when you started to talk to her.
Imagine This - Sink
You x Leigh Shaw (Sorry For Your Loss - Elizabeth Olsen)
Angst/Fluff
Summary: Anonymous asked:
TW!
Would you be able to write a Leigh Shaw x reader where the reader struggles to eat and Leigh comforts them?
It’s totally fine if that goes too far and you feel uncomfortable writing this
You are married to Leigh Shaw and life has been pretty good but everyone has bad days luckily you are not alone and Leigh is the most supportive caring wife.
TW: Eating Disorder, Struggling to eat, mental illness, depression, anxiety
Here is the title song: Suffocate by James Quick & Lauren Sanderson
Specifically “Can I justify the days I barely eat, If I starve until my cheeks can’t help but sink? How deep can I go ‘till it’s too deep? If you hear me start to choke, please reach for me.”
Read On Ao3
AN: I loved writing this thank you for the request! I hope you enjoy it. I tried not to make it too triggering to folks who struggle to eat but please read with your own mental health in mind.
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