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dolphin-diaries · 9 days ago

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Detrans Women v. Trans Men, Or: The Sanity Of Sex Change

Originally published on the Dolphin Diaries substack.

Be advised: this essay contains misogynistic, transphobic, and ableist language, especially as it pertains to pregnancy, trans men, and mental disability.

Today the court presides over a very special case, poised to answer a question that has plagued the nation since the dreaded sex wars. Several questions, actually. What are transsexuals? Do they deserve to exist? What about women? If a woman could become a man, why wouldn’t she? Do real women like being women? And when all the real women are gone—who, pray tell, will bear our children for us?

The plaintiff is a sight to behold. She is stern and clearly distressed, because she’s not smiling. She’s dressed with a presentable degree of femininity, not like a whore or anything. But there is a certain mannishness about her. Her jaw and her shoulders—must’ve been a surgery. When she speaks, you can hear she’s not really a woman anymore. Well, no, she is, but—you know. You can just tell by looking at her, she is barren inside.

The defendant is… charming. S—I mean, he, of course he looks like a ‘he,’ but of course he’s also short. Kind of too well-dressed. He has small wrists and his cranium is pronouncedly feminine. If the court looks away for a moment, the court will forget his face, but the court will certainly remember the wrists and the height and the cranium. Can you imagine, that thing can get pregnant? That was an aside, don’t record that.

When the plaintiff speaks, it is with great pain. She bears the scars of her transition with tremulous distress and speaks of tragic self-harm in a futile attempt to escape the patriarchy. She’d been hoodwinked by the trans cult and doctors—they sold her an illusion of a cure. Now she has seen there’s no such thing. The woman-ness has awoken within her and cried for the de-mammaried chest and all the babies she will never gestate. Her question is simple: why was she forced to do this; why was she lied to? Why has no one ever stopped her? Why have her doctors and friends entertained her delusion that she could somehow be a man? It is nothing short of a grave injustice that her woman-ness was allowed to be undermined. That it is now broken and impossible to heal.

When the defendant speaks, he too overflows with suffering. He was—in his soul, his mind—a man, but yet his body was not. His distress over this mismatch was profound and incurable; transition alone managed to mercifully relieve it. And he is dearly sorry for the plaintiff’s pain, but—well, it’s hardly his fault she tried to fool the system, isn’t it? Why must the one truly suffering be held accountable for the delusions of liars? Why must he be punished for the deranged ravings of belligerent, hysterical cunts?

Gender Madness

Now that the jury is well and properly annoyed with me for my inflammatory phrasing—we all have our defects; mine is that I’m a rhetorician—I shall transform from a bigoted judge into a two-headed creature, prosecutor and attorney both. A little unorthodox, you might say? But this isn’t really a courtroom. No, this argument only occasionally makes it that far; we stand most often in the court of private and public opinion.

With that in mind, let us go over the details of the case. We shall start from afar, but do stay with me; the context is vital.

Our crime(s) take place in a very particular world, one in which life is earned with labour. A citizen must perform and provide labour up to a somewhat arbitrary standard, for which they are rewarded with normal treatment. Human treatment, not-Other treatment. What exactly that constitutes depends on time, place, circumstance, and other extenuating traits the citizen holds. How that is phrased also depends, but it’s usually something to the tune of an adequate contribution for the good of something greater and more abstract. In a late-capitalist society, for instance, money is a measure of labour and a vehicle for greater social contribution, and it thus reflects the measure of allowed humanity. Even when that money is inherited, and its holder has not worked for a damn penny of it, it must reflect some great labour done in the past, by themself or an ancestor. They must’ve deserved it, because money is a measure of labour, and labour is a measure of deserving.

Capitalist profit-meritocratic logics are only one of many ways earning life with labour manifests. But this is a court case, not a lesson in history or politics or economics, so never mind that.

What happens when one cannot meet the standard of labour? What is someone who cannot contribute enough to be normal? Every human’s capacity is limited, but some limits lie at or above the arbitrary standard of labour—and some below. Failure to meet standard capacity is, quite plainly, disability. I speak specifically—now and henceforth—of the social construct of disability. Just as sex/gender, it encompasses human features which may exist regardless of social order; just as sex/gender, it constructs archetypes and social scripts that serve a purpose.

What is the social purpose of disability? Of the infirm, the crippled, the wretched? Sometimes it is to make a large performance of helping them—only those that truly deserve it, of course; never forget truly deserving, being truly in pain—but much more importantly, across history disability existed to move the disabled to the margins of society, render them vulnerable and reliant on goodwill when they cannot be cured of being insufficient. They cannot adequately contribute, which makes them dead weights on the finite resources earned by other people’s labour. That’s why deserving is so important, you see. Because, you know, all people are constantly trying to shirk their fair share of labour, don’t they? Wouldn’t we all not work if we could choose not-working? If we granted this sort of charity to just anybody; if we kept encouraging this sort of behaviour—think of the finite resources! You and I—real, honest, hard-working people—will be the last Atlas shouldering humanity! Oh, it’s unthinkable. No-no, we have to ensure the disabled demonstrate real, provable pain that renders them utterly and definitely incapable of working as much as we do. Otherwise the world will end.

The function of the social construct of disability is to draw a line as to how much labour must be performed, and how much accommodation a normal citizen requires to do it. Disability then makes it hell to seek more accommodation for less labour—in broad strokes.

But you might say, prosecutor/attorney ma’am, what does this have to do with being trans? Or with women? Or with gender, or sex, or whatever you kids call it these days?

Well, dear jury, I know it is uncouth and uncommon to call it labour, but—by which process do we create new labourers? By what mechanism do we ensure the production of citizens? How do we ascertain that the working bodies are taken care of; that workers’ homes are clean and tended to; that workers are rewarded with something to fuck? Just for now, allow that feminised labour is labour.

Entertain the notion that the organising principle of patriarchy is distribution of feminised labour. Sexing/gendering is then a social mechanism by which labour roles are assigned and maintained—and, within the current and millenia-standing incarnation of the patriarchy, these roles are assigned at birth based on the external appearance of infant genitalia, and therefore expectation of the baby’s future gestational or inseminatory capacity. From there an entire hierarchy blossoms, in which those deemed Men are called to compete for the finite resource of Women—and to split the women among themselves, deciding which women are and are not permissible to possess by which kinds of men—and all those deemed Women are called to negotiate their commodity. If a woman is capable of producing a citizen—because she can bear children, and she is of the right nation and ethnicity and race, and has no defect she can pass down—she may be a wife. A prized personal possession, like a pet that sometimes talks too much. If she cannot produce a citizen, she’s still good for some things. After all, Men are allegedly born lascivious and violent—and also enlightened and important at the same time. So their violent excesses must be tolerated, but if we force the wives to be their drywall and their fuckdoll, it may prove too much for the gentle soul. She may get damaged, and then who’ll bear the children? Naturally, women that cannot adequately contribute to society with their wombs (either because they lack the organ altogether, or for whatever other reason) must provide for men where wives cannot. Their fault, anyway. They’re not sufficiently contributing.

On that note arises a question: what if one fails to meet their birth-destined standard of labour? What if they cannot perform their proper gender adequately? Well, a wife that fails to sufficiently provide for her man is, of course, lazy. And when women utterly refuse to behave as women should, bitches be…

For brevity, let us call that queerness. I will use the word in the broadest of strokes: it is failure or refusal or both to meet the standard of assigned sex; so then, even cishetero women that disobey their husbands are, for the purposes of this courtroom, queer. One way society has tried to grapple with queerness was to seek basis in a physical abnormality, which may then provide justification for the queers’ less-than-human status as well as avenues for cures. Perhaps the foetus was exposed to an excess of the wrong kind of sex hormone in-utero. Perhaps women harbouring lesbian desire hide a secret false penis within. Perhaps it’s the humours. Often though, because queer behaviours do not really have a direct relationship to physical attributes, they are consigned to the realm of mental disability. Of madness.

While it is a kind of disability, it is a peculiar one—so, in terms of social construct, what is the nature and purpose of madness? Dear jury, you likely know the answer, intuitively if not in words. It is to regulate the behaviours and thoughts of normal citizens. When those things breach the line of madness, one is made mad, and to be mad is to be rendered unreliable, unpredictable, and incapable of adequate agency. Once one becomes mad, the sane and the normal are relieved of trying to understand one’s thoughts and needs and desires, for those are made inherently incomprehensible. Once one becomes mad, it is assumed one cannot be trusted to make decisions which the sane make all the time, because the mad are considered consummately and totally incapable of perceiving reality or of making choices that do not harm the self or others. In short, they are a danger to all, including themselves.

What is to be done with the mad? First, they must be removed from society, lest they cause harm. Then we must attempt to make them sane—that is, behaving and thinking in ways that are normal. If that is impossible, we must make them seem as sane as possible, so that their madness is confined to their own head and does not spill over. If even that is impossible, they must be removed from society permanently. Otherwise they will disquiet and disturb the sane, or worse, infect them with madness.

Notably, madness was not made to help those that may suffer from, say, psychoses or hallucinations. The history of psychiatry—and yours truly’s personal experience with it as a transsexual forced to self-inter to access transition—makes it quite clear that its primary purpose is the segregation and normalisation of the mad. At times it happens to address the needs of the mad, but generally only insofar as it can bring about their sanity and make them fit for labour production. If one’s need is irrelevant to that, it is usually neglected. At times doctors are genuinely invested in the well-being of their mad patients, and even respect them as humans—but those doctors are merely individuals acting on compassion. The system itself facilitates the opposite.

So then it becomes abundantly obvious why disobedient women, runaway slaves, homosexuals, and transsexuals either were or are psychiatric diagnoses. Indeed, to return to the court case at hand, in a patriarchal world which constructs sex/gender to be an immutable, unchangeable birth-destiny, to think that it can be changed or that you are not what was destined to you—that is madness. It must be. If it is not, then the entire sex-caste order is thrown into total instability. What if everyone decides they’re trans?! What if the men stop competing to assert manhood; what if the women refuse to be commodity?! Who can we then extract sex from? Who will be forced to take care of our homes? Who will work themselves to the bone and who will serve the nation if we cannot promise they will be rewarded with housemaids and offspring and whores? WHO WILL MAKE THE BABIES?!?!

As you can see, dear jury, obviously all of humanity will die and the world will end. Which is why, although I’m sure not everyone enjoys the patriarchy, we must tolerate it. Just like we tolerate our jobs to survive. At least, like, the core idea. We can jiggle some things around to avoid torches and pitchforks, but the sex-castes must stay. You don’t want to be the last Atlas suffering gender-work while all the kids get surgeries and hormones and don’t want to produce gender anymore, do you? We simply can’t encourage this kind of behaviour.

Within the patriarchal resource distribution system, the trans are sex/gender-disabled, and transition is then akin to an accommodation. Just like any disabled accommodation, it is seen as a resource drain that either must be thoroughly justified—for resources are always limited—or else be deemed a frivolous waste. In an attempt to incorporate trans-ness into the resource distribution system and justify the accommodation, trans-pathology emerges. The key to trans-pathology—whether it is called transsexualism or gender dysphoria or gender incongruence; whether it is considered a matter of biology, psychiatry, or soul—is that transition is justified due to a psychological/psychiatric wound. “I deserve to transition because it is the only thing making me hurt less.” Transition, then, is continuous relief to de facto gender-madness.

But I mean, within such a worldview, wouldn’t a cure always be better than just relief?

Anyway, that is why my defendant has had to prove he really deserves transition. He has suffered greatly for his defect, and although he cannot be made completely normal—that isn’t possible; we’ve tried—he is as normal as he can be. My defendant has managed to prove to the systems built within the patriarchy, beyond the shadow of a reasonable doubt, that he is gender-disabled, gender-mad; that he is wholly incapable of producing sufficient feminised labour due to his condition. He is too pathologically miserable—suicidal, even. But now that he has transitioned, he is happy; he has demonstrated he can participate in the production of the family. Kinda-sorta. Close enough; it looks normal enough. Again: we’ll keep trying, but for now, this is the best we got.

Here’s the problem with my defendant’s case, though. The needs of the sane supersede the needs of the mad. After all, the sane are the ones really working and producing the resources which may then be charitably allotted to take care of the mad. The sane deserve the humanity that the mad can only temporarily, fractionally rent with their pain and the compassion that affords them.

Dear jury, have you ever wondered why it has been so pervasive for trans advocacy to state over and over again the in-born-ness of it, the low numbers of it? Only 1%, no, 5%, no, I don’t know—how are we counting? Who are we counting? Regardless, we must insist it cannot spread; that you the sane will not catch trans cooties. But what if that number rises—why, we must find a justification for why it’s actually not and it’s been counted wrong, or maybe, maybe those people would’ve been trans all along, only now they have the opportunity to pursue their trans-ness, or maybe—

Why is the argument for trans existence so entwined with asserting its rarity?

As we’ve already established, dear jury, if all the world went trans, it would end, and we would all die in a horrible extinction event. We must face the truth of sex/gender austerity. So, if trans people are to be permitted to exist more-or-less normally within a patriarchal society, they must prove beyond the shadow of a doubt: they are not contagious. Relief for the mad may only be entertained if it does not impede the sane from performing their labours.

But here stands my plaintiff. A woman, born rightfully a woman, a healthy woman, that caught the madness. She’d been contaminated by the delusion of the sex change, despite constant assurance that sex cannot be changed, and despite all the ways which we’ve devised to make transsexuals prove they aren’t lying about their stupid, ridiculous disability. And so when presented with proof of the transgender contagion, we must ask ourselves a world-endingly important question:

What If All the Bitches Went Crazy?

I mean, we all don’t want to do what needs to be done. The good of the nation—or our feudal lord, or the communist party, or Amazon Stonks Exchange—asks much of us. Some more than others, but it is what it is. Right?

The place of the woman is not terribly enviable. Sometimes we tell them of the joys of being the hand that rocks the cradle, or how much better it is to be a well-kept pet that has no worries nor responsibilities, or how empowered they are in being actually more capable then the men they must tend to—but at the end of the day, no rational individual would enjoy being treated as less-than-human, as commodity, as property. Luckily for all of us, sex is immutable and natural and we’re all just born this way, pre-destined for certain roles and behaviours. Even if we don’t want to do what needs to be done, there’s not much choice in the matter.

Except, ever-awkwardly, there stands my defendant. Very clearly a man. Very verifiably assigned female at birth.

Um.

Well, no, you see, it’s not like you can really change sex. You can just—approximate it. It’s like a costume. It’s not real, it’s ersatz, and we can always tell.

Except, no we can’t. If you saw my defendant in the streets, would you be able to tell? Would you really? What about the fact that trans men’s health concerns largely mirror those of cis men, such as risks of certain cancers and diseases, so long as those trans men are on HRT? What about the fact that they seem to live as men in society just fine?

Uhhhh.

Any attempt at normalisation of female-to-male transition arrives at two core issues at the heart of the patriarchy. Firstly, the limited resource of Woman: woman who can birth a proper citizen; woman who will clean your room and soothe your tears; woman who can be used and fucked. Secondly: who deserves to be Man? If patriarchal relation is instantiated at birth; if sex is immutable and fundamental to human character, then those born as women must be too categorically different from men to ever even slightly approximate them.

Therefore, in order to be normalised—made less-mad, shifted into the liminal space of not-quite-sane—the trans man must demonstrate and acquiesce to two things. One: he will never be a real man. Indeed, the world will not allow him to be totally interchangeable from cis men; no matter how much he looks and acts the part, at some point something will remind him he is less deserving. He cannot perform all the labour of Man, and he owes society the labour of Woman by dint of birth. To be normalised, he must acquiesce firstly to the caste system itself, and then to his precarious place within it.

But here’s the second thing—for this court case, it is more relevant. He must demonstrate the sorts of women that will become him were never good Woman material anyway. They would not birth a proper citizen anyway. They would not make good housemaids anyway. They would be too ugly to deserve getting fucked anyway. And—crucially—that these reject-women are few and marginal. Because even bad material can be utilised by men who aren’t good enough to deserve the wifely and hot ones, or else used and disposed of by men who just feel like it. Any and all waste of a limited resource must be thoroughly justified.

Unfortunately for the trans man, normalising his existence is incompatible with these dogmas in practice. Normalisation means better access to HRT and masculinising surgeries; it also means being able to exist in public as a man. A lesser man, sure—but many men are lesser men. Such is the nature of an austerity-based resource hierarchy; the place of the beneficiary is competitive.

Scandalously, I myself had a stint in trans manhood, in a place more patriarchal and trans-unaware than most Western countries. Like many trans men, I have found that if you look like a man, talk like a man, act like a man, people can’t help but treat you like a man. Even career transphobes seem to force themselves to misgender trans people at times. Modern medicine enables passing as another sex even for people completely un-androgynous by nature—and historically, even before transition was available, some managed to live as a different sex anyway, discovered only upon burial or autopsy.

And then, when the trans man is normalised, it necessarily entails that female-to-male transition becomes—little by little, however fractionally—less dangerous to access. Less unknown. Which means more people will try to access it.

But listen, my defendant says—look at this graph of left-handed people, at how the number increased once we stopped forcing them to learn writing right-handed! And the patriarchy does not care, because unlike the left-handed, he has stolen a resource owed to its men. It does not matter why the number has increased, only that it did. The trans man’s extreme rarity was part of the deal struck with trans-pathology.

But listen, my defendant says, women don’t want to be men. Women are essentially, fundamentally women. No matter how badly they do or don’t have it, they would never attempt to rid themselves of womanhood—it’s just not their nature. And that means anyone attempting to avail of female-to-male transition was never a woman by dint of trying at all.

Here we arrive at a contradiction. If trans-pathology justifies transition via an incurable ill or an innate quality, then transition cannot be justified by itself. Transition is the action in need of justification; it is not itself proof of anything. Moreover it makes all my defendant’s attempts to argue for either gender-expansiveness or feminism rather laughable. In order to assert that no True Woman would ever attempt to transition to a man, he must either claim that women aren’t really suffering due to their gender all that much, or else that they are too fundamentally different from men to even consider the option. Too incapable of shifting their self-perception of gender, and altogether too committed to having boobs.

Sooner or later in the process of trans-normalisation, no matter how pathologic its framing, it arrives at the simple truth that those born as women can live as men. And the fact women are a patriarchal commodity is hardly news or a secret. Therefore it is possible that someone—arguably—‘gender-sane,’ and thus perfectly suitable for feminised exploitation, would attempt to avail of transition. It only makes rational sense.

And after all, what about my plaintiff? Is she not a woman?

Ah, argues my defendant, but exactly. She’s a woman, and for whatever reason she decided to dabble in real disorders. And now she’s crying about the consequences. Boo-fucking-hoo. She stands here lying she was forced to do it, but he knows better—he knows how difficult transition is to access, how gatekept it is. No one is scouting vulnerable young women to pump them full of testosterone. With that I could only agree—the patriarchy does not simply let go of its resource. My defendant is none too pleased with me, though, perhaps because I have alluded his transition constitutes a kind of ‘escape plan’ for women. But: clearly fucking not. She’s here, isn’t she? Not too escaped, is she? She wasn’t really trans! And anyway, what does that highfalutin stuff matter. She’s brought us all here today because she regrets a choice she made. If she supposedly ‘escaped’ misogyny with transition, why isn’t she still a man? What kind of woman would choose to become a man, only to come crawling back?

A crazy one.

Competitive Sanity

Dear jury, I do confess: my plaintiff is, some might say, full of shit. We all are in this courtroom, but she’s directly lying more than most. Demonstrably, factually, ideologically, there simply isn’t great social incentive to force women to transition to men. On the contrary, there is great incentive to stop them from doing it. In most countries you need permission to legally transition, and that permission is secured with going through a lot of motions to ensure you really really need it. If you’re transitioning outside the legal procedure, it is even harder to argue you were forced to transition or never prevented from doing it. No, there would’ve been a lot of forces hindering the detrans woman’s alleged self-mutilation. This whole story is incredibly easy to poke holes in—and she would know that.

So why is she saying it anyway? What is she trying to get, and why does she think this is how she gets it?

Her plea, as stated, is for cessation of trans accommodation—medical transition firstly, but eventually all of it. Why? Because she bears a psychological wound. She suffers dysphoria from the results of her transition—she’s been rendered sex/gender-disabled by it. So the request is in essence a request for accommodation. Indeed, due to a total lack of detransition procedures and thus state or insurance coverage, the courts are some of the only avenues through which costs of sex-altering detransition procedures may be covered. It is not an unreasonable question: if I received a double mastectomy on insurance/government funding, so why can’t I receive breast reconstruction in the same manner?

And the answer is: because that’s not how trans-pathology works, sweetie. This isn’t a fair exchange sex/gender marketplace. Transition is a barely-granted accommodation—and a crazy thing to do.

Voluntary detransition necessarily arrives at a different issue at the heart of patriarchy: that sex/gender are supposed to be immutable and eternal, and that natural sex is inherently preferable and superior to artificially modified sex. Trans-pathology seeks to frame trans-ness as an essential attribute which causes a psychological wound that must be relieved, thereby violating the immutability dogma as little as possible and assenting to the superiority of natural sex. But to detransition is, truthfully, to transition again at least once; multiple sex changes cannot be justified within this paradigm. And, the nature of transition access ensures that in the overwhelming majority of cases, going through it is a choice made on purpose. Therefore, desiring detransition under the framework of immutable sex/gender means you transitioned by frivolity, delusion—mistake. And not just any mistake; a mistake in which you pilfered a limited-resource accommodation. Willingly destroyed your ability to adequately perform feminised labour. And, according to the naturalistic fallacy, wasted a superior version of your sex for no justifiable reason.

Just like it is insanity to think you can or should change your sex, it is madness to imagine you can just walk back and forth willy-nilly.

So if that’s the case, how does one normalise detransition? What framing is needed? How does my plaintiff place it in the realm of sanity?

Just like the trans man acquiesces to some of the patriarchal claims about him in order to shift others, so does the detrans woman. She agrees that yes, her natural sex is superior and unrecoverable. Yes, it was a mistake. What she can’t acquiesce to is the idea that she transitioned on purpose, willingly. Because if that is so, she violated the caste system in the most grievous of ways, and she stole labour and accommodation. If you know anything about the treatment of the disabled—or the homeless, or any vulnerable category that requires more accommodation than average—you would know that to admit such a thing is to cut yourself off from any further help. If the detrans woman agrees she was a rational agent when she transitioned, she agrees she is a parasite and a resource-eater. Within the patriarchal framework, she cannot argue for the right to change sex again.

If she does not present her transition as an insanity and her detransition as a cure, then that means she is mad and has been the whole time. Mad: meaning, unworthy of autonomy. She must self-denigrate and totally disavow her past self—or else be denied autonomy not only then, but also now.

She makes the claim she was mad. She finds every way in which her agency could’ve been compromised and exaggerates them until her past self appears completely incapable of making choices. All our agencies are always at least somewhat compromised, of course, for we are not totally rational agents and we are not omniscient—but that doesn’t matter, because mad choices will always be simple to present as delusions, and the sane ones will always be assumed perfectly-agented by default. And so, for instance, it may be true that the detrans woman’s doctor had a poor grasp on the mental health of women while knowing how to follow basic transition guidelines. But this is not presented as one of many circumstances which enabled the detrans woman to rethink her gender and consider transition—rather, it becomes a total superimposition of the doctor’s will upon the detrans woman’s, erasing her own decision-making capacity entirely. It becomes brainwashing.

Or let us return to my favourite topic: the patriarchy. While it is absurd to suggest the commodification and dehumanisation inherent to being a woman under patriarchy could never cause anyone to alienate from ‘woman’ altogether, it is likewise absurd to present transition as an ‘escape’ from patriarchy. The only escape there is from an all-encompassing regime is leaving for the woods. Moreover, the sex-essentialism of its caste system ensures trans men’s lives are made especially precarious, their trans status impossible to totally conceal, and any and all reveal of it threatening dehumanisation and womanisation. You can become a man—but only a queer one, and queerness is automatically degendering and unstable.

(Recall our bigoted judge. He is merely a distilled substrate of my own experiences with how trans-ness undoes humanity, disassembles one’s body into parts to be undressed and examined in the town square, and assiduously regendered.)

As is abundantly clear to anyone that’s ever transitioned, transition results in a re-negotiation of one’s status within the patriarchal caste system—with a heavy penalty. It is as silly to say ‘man’ confers no immense advantages over ‘woman’ as it is to say ‘cis’ confers no immense advantages over ‘trans.’ Both claims are brazenly, demonstrably absurd—mad, even.

So why is the trans man stating the former while the detrans woman states the latter? Why are they making absurd claims while poking at the absurdity of the other’s claim?

The fact of the matter is, both transition and detransition are fundamentally incompatible with patriarchal logics. Bioessentialist sex-destiny at birth and the naturalistic fallacy of sex are its foundational building blocks. Ability to perform sex/gender up to an arbitrary labour standard is the measure of one’s place in the hierarchy, and that hierarchy is supposed to have no mobility. Therefore patriarchy is incompatible with providing accommodation for changing sex, at all, ever. Desire for this accommodation is madness, undergoing it is disabling, and both madness and disability are utterly undesirable within resource austerity.

Then it follows that attempting to justify either transition or detransition care within a patriarchal system generates fallacies, omissions, distortions, and outright lies, because true justification—true equity with those that do not change sex/gender—is impossible. Moreover, sex/gender austerity forces accommodation requests of the trans and the detrans to become antagonistic. If the trans deserve accommodation, that makes the detrans lying and crazy resource-eaters. If the detrans deserve accommodation, that makes the trans crazy mutilators of the sane. Therefore the trans and the detrans must compete for the title of least-mad to be granted anything at all. The needs of the more-sane supersede the needs of the less-sane, because the saner you are, the more likely you are to almost-meet the arbitrary standard of labour. You are more worthy of having a finite resource spent on you.

So: poke holes in the inevitable flaws in each other’s reasoning, and whoever pokes best, wins.

And The Winner Is…

In the realm of pure logic, obviously no one. We’re all mad here. But this isn’t pure logic—this is the court of patriarchy, and the logics we’re operating under are patriarchal. Primacy in a hierarchy is won with obedience.

And in that sense, the case was rigged from the start.

You see, dear jury, you were never needed here, and your votes will not be counted. Of our plaintiff and our defendant, there is a self-evident winner in the ‘most obedient to patriarchal logics’ competition. Look how she cries for her lost womb. She’s obviously very sorry for betraying her labour function, and she says she’s been disabled—mutilated!—by those pesky resource-eaters, those burdens. Well, we certainly don’t need to be asked twice to care less! Reduced accommodation approved!

Ah, but what she really wanted was accommodation for her gender and sex. To be a woman again.

Too bad.

It is curious, isn’t it, how rarely you see allegedly pro-detrans conservative pundits advocate for detrans healthcare. No fundraisers for breast reconstruction, no calls to include voice training in subsidised procedures, no requests to incorporate legal detransition into gender marker change pathways. You’d be forgiven for thinking no such thing as ‘detrans healthcare’ even exists. Yes, yes, they’re campaigning for the benevolent extermination of detrans people as a category via extermination of transition—but what of the ones currently living? Even if they’re supposedly irreversibly damaged, don’t they deserve at least relief?

Seems like the only thing detrans women deserve is pity—not accommodation. All their pain buys them is a lack of direct violence. But in order to have that non-violence bought with pain, they must continue to be in pain; they must remain destitute. We can’t keep encouraging this sex-changing behaviour, after all. If detrans women aren’t destitute, who knows what kind of ideas the gender-obedient will get in their as-yet sane heads.

That is, in the end, the issue with trying to earn humane treatment with pain against a system that claims you have not contributed enough to deserve humane treatment in the first place. It is a continuously defensive position, with shifting boundaries you do not get to set or control—because you’re defensive. You don’t get to decide how much pain constitutes enough payment, nor how much your pain is worth.

Consider trans-pathology. Whether we call it transsexualism or gender dysphoria or gender incongruence, transition is presented as a form of relief to a psychiatric or psychological ill—that is, it is an accommodation bought with pain. Then remains a thorny question: what if the source of pain could be eliminated? Conversion therapy is deemed in poor taste chiefly because it does not work. But a total cure is always preferable to a relief. Therefore, under this logic, it must be pursued. So long as gender is what it is, and so long as madness is what it is, the search for working conversion therapy cannot cease. You can spend countless hours proving the ‘true cure’ to trans-ness is impossible, but with enough push, some hack will publish something credible-looking and science-seeming that asserts otherwise—and they’ll be more useful to the system than you.

Just look at the Cass Review.

When Abigail Thorn in her Why I Don’t Like The Word ‘Dysphoria’ essay suggested the basis for the right to transition ought to be her will—that the only justification sex-changing and gender-shifting needs is “because I want to”—she received quite some pushback on the idea. It is a common critique, one I received myself over many years, and it comes in two forms. One is an accusation of pain-ignoring. That we do not recognise the suffering of trans people, perhaps even attempt to override their stories. It’s valid that you’re not hurting, but you have to recognise that I do!

And I ask: why should the freedoms permitted to you depend on how much pain you’re in? Does this not entail that, once you’re not hurting anymore, you no longer deserve them—meaning, your destitution must in some way remain eternal?

The second critique is pragmatic: if we push this weird frivolous agency line, we won’t get what we want fast enough. We’ll die on this hill arguing we deserve autonomy while getting no help at all, when we could have at least some benefit now.

But neither Thorn nor I argue against pragmatism. I lied my way through the masturbation quizzes in the psych ward just fine. The argument made in both this essay and hers is not, as the critique fears, for the rapid dissolution of current trans healthcare and for dying on the vanguard of pipe dreams, but rather for a gradual shift of the patriarchal sex-caste construction—for rethinking sex. And there are pragmatic reasons to argue this; we can observe them right now, as fascism builds its momentum around restricting whatever trans freedoms were won with trans-pathology.

Because, I repeat: transition is fundamentally incompatible with patriarchal logics. It cannot be assimilated. Its normalisation jeopardises the basis on which it is allowed a sliver of assimilation. Thus trans-pathology is locked in a cycle whose only variable is the intensity of its eugenic extermination.

It is also a cycle in which I cannot exist with dignity (not that anyone does.) At the height of trans-pathology, I am a crazy resource-thief; at its nadir, I am a mutilated and fallen woman. So I reject this samsara, not just as an ideological dead end, but also a practical one. I reject the austerity of feminised labour; I reject that a hierarchy of resource-consumption is necessary and that no better world can exist. I reject pathetic flailing in front of impassive juries and judges, trying to prove I’m not really crippled or mad—that I don’t deserve to be treated like them. I reject that some people deserve living more than others, or deserve participation in society more than others. I reject being taxed with pain for failing to be a good-enough resource site. I reject the need for performance of justification.

And I hope you do, too.

Recommended Reading

On mad justice: Micha Frazer-Carroll, Mad World: The Politics of Mental Health.

On the treatment of the disabled as an economic and eugenic burden: Beatrice Adler-Bolton and Artie Verkant, Health Communism: A Surplus Manifesto.

#transfeminism #material feminism #detrans #detransition #feminism #sex is a social construct #disability #disability justice #mad justice

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kk-iki · 18 hours ago

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it's been a long time coming, but. . .

enough is enough. i think i've moved in relative silence when it comes to some of the more odd things that occur in this fandom, but one instance in particular is giving me pause. this honestly feels like something better suited for a substack essay, but i'll hold off on that since i think everyone in this specific sub - tumblr ( ? ) should hear this first.

i feel like so much of the call of duty fandom is trapped in a constant woman - hating epidemic.

and i don't just mean 'oh, there's barely any female character x reader content, there's nothing for the girls who like girls'. that's an entirely different issue i may or may not bring up later.

i'm talking about how a good majority of the writing i read in this fandom is so geared towards men. and i don't mean that there's a surplus of male reader content, because there really isn't. i mean that there's so many fics i read that are drenched in the light of 'doe - eyed, pouty, submissive woman who is always eager to please her man, and the idea that the man may be eager to please her in return is such an incredibly radical concept'.

i click on any 'x reader' tag in this fandom, and i'm met with a tidal wave of two specific archetypes;

the doe - eyed, pouty, submissive fem reader who is always eager to please her man and gets off on him essentially treating her like property, or. . .

a reader who has no character. no structure. no personality. a reader who is meant to be vague enough to where the actual reader can neatly insert themselves into their shoes, but at the cost of any innate substance or realness. a reader who is essentially just a placeholder in words.

somehow, inexplicably, it's more often than not the first.

write and read for this fandom long enough, and you'll see what i see in droves. the attention that is lavished on writing within this fandom is relegated to the specific archetype of the tradwife who knows nothing but to cook for her husband and be a willing conduit for his post - deployment stress relief.

and what truly infuriates me the most is that it will be these kinds of writers who are so adamantly against the idea of tradwives. yes, you say you're against it, but can your words hold up when your writing is essentially tradwife propaganda in disguise?

and it just irks me so badly when these mentalities infiltrate the characters themselves. today's specific instance of this was when i was scrolling through the könig x reader tag and i came across this one headcanon list that advertised itself as "loser!könig". nothing innately malicious, of course, but then i saw the tags.

'but also, he's a sucker for the wife, which makes him a loser. say it with me now.'

i want to make it known that i mean no ill intent towards the original author of this specific headcanon list. i don't want any vitriol to be directed at them because i'm speaking my mind about this fandom as a whole. it most likely was meant to be an affectionate, "haha, he's such a malewife loser"-esque endearment. but this set of tags just. . .baffled me.

. . .because when did it become loser - like or a loser - adjacent trait to be a sucker for your wife?

this isn't even the first instance of this. i've seen it before, the way this fandom—sometimes subtly, sometimes unintentionally—pushes this narrative that has been setting us back decades. the idea that there is not only a beauty standard that women must live up to in order to be considered desirable by men, but there is also a mentality that a woman must have in addition.

there's another fic that i read, a 141 x reader one if memory serves me correctly. it featured a reader who was insecure about her appearance, which is absolutely nothing to frown upon. what startled me, though, was the fact that the author themselves referred to the reader as 'ugly'.

the reader is a single mother. she is stated in the fic to have love handles, breakouts, and a thick waist. she has messy hair and wears baggy clothes and has dark undereye circles. she required the love and special attention of four conventionally attractive men who moved in next door in order to feel beautiful.

she is said, by the author in the precluding note, to be meant as a way to 'show some love to readers who feel ugly, instead of petite girly readers'.

as if people with these traits should feel ugly. as if people with these traits cannot be girly.

i understand i may be reading too much into this. i may be making a mountain out of a molehill. but i'm angry about this and this is my blog and you've read this far, so clearly you want to see where this goes.

and this is where it's going.

i spoke about this briefly in a server i'm in and am extremely fond of—shoutout to the shitheads.

i said, quote: "are you nothing but a slave to the whims of a patriarchal society’s dictation on how someone must present in order to be considered desirable? or are you willingly feeding into this at the risk of the self image of so many beautiful people who cannot recognize their own enchanting presences because of people like you howling at them in your sweetest voice that they are anything but?"

i also said: "have you considered the reason for that might be because she’s a recluse and doesn’t go outside apart from making sure her child is getting sufficient vitamin d and is thus making assumptions about what people will think of her on the basis of one bad man’s words to her?"

maybe she doesn't feel ugly because you think the traits she has are ugly. maybe she feels ugly because she doesn't socialize. maybe, instead of just leaving that in the subtext, you should have started with that.

the writer, if i recall correctly, was a woman. by the way. which makes this worse.

it is so difficult for me to understand how the women in this fandom can be so cruel to each other, even implicitly. from the way we're written in reader - insert fics to how we react to each others' ocs and creations. . .it's just so disheartening.

more than anything, it makes me wonder how someone like me—a lesbian who exclusively writes women for women and tries to veer away from the reader and the character falling into any one archetype—is going to find any sort of platform in this fandom.

the bottom line is that there is so much casual misogyny in this fandom. frankly, i'm a little sick of it.

one might think i'm making a big deal out of this. i know. i'm being a killjoy, i'm being a hater, i won't let anyone have any fun. but we need to remember a couple of key points here:

art is always political because there is no way to create something without a modicum of bias.

the politics promoted by the art in this fandom—specifically, the writing—are pushing an agenda that has been consistently used to strip women of their rights and needs for decades.

most of these writers are women themselves.

obviously, there's nothing wrong with a submissive woman. obviously, the characters in call of duty that are most featured in reader - insert content are canonically framed in a lens that makes it seem like they would be the kind of men to only enjoy this kind of woman. obviously, not everyone in this fandom indulges this.

but it occurs enough. and it sets us back.

and i'm sick of it.

thank you for reading this far, and for hearing out what i have to say. i promise i don't do this often—but i also promise that i absolutely should. i love you.

kiki x

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drdemonprince · 10 months ago

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I am always clutching to my idealized reality firmly with both fists. Whenever my hair looks good in a photograph, I immediately get to stressing about the fact that my hair has already grown some imperceptible amount since when the image was captured. Then I cut it, hoping to restore it to its former perfection — and my head gets completely mangled by my clippers and shears. I deny myself my favorite foods and drinks sometimes, knowing that the meal will too quickly be over. The moment someone begins to love me is when I start picturing them dead. Many late-realized Autistics develop relational patterns that therapists label codependent, controlling, or Borderline. I wonder how much of our supposedly dysfunctional attachment can be attributed to our desire for constancy, and our attempts to impose stability on a reality that forever shifts. For Autistics, most social interactions are mystifying and seem to play out on their own, largely beyond our control. Possible rejection hides in every corner, much of it unforeseeable to us. Doesn’t it make sense we’d try to control what we can? When a partner remarks that he’d like to get a bigger mattress, I want to chop off the sides of the bed to force our bodies closer. I want to hiss at every new person that enters the friend group to scare them off. Though all my queer loved ones are enlightened polyamorists, whenever someone I love starts texting someone new I fantasize about slipping away with their phone in the night, unlocking it, finding the new contact, and blocking the threat into oblivion. I don’t do any of this, of course. But in my selfish, rotted heart, I want to be like Hannibal Lecter, drugging his patients and hypnotically conditioning Clarice to be in love with him. When I learned that Jeffrey Dahmer drilled holes into his lovers’ heads and filled the cavities with hot water and bleach to keep them from abandoning him, I could kind of understand it. And I hated myself for it. I don’t actually have the stomach to be violent. My war with reality happens only inside. Besides, I know that if I were actually to try and control another person’s life, it would just send them running away. I learned that the dozens of times that I completed boyfriends’ homework for them, paid their rent, wrote cover letters for friends’ job applications, and inserted myself into fights that weren’t mine. I have tried to pull at others’ strings to keep them all happy and around me, but it only ever sent them running away, sad tangles of threads left round my fingers. People like me must be why Autistics have a reputation for being cold-hearted, unfeeling, and unable to recognize the interiority of anyone else. I’m an anarchist in principle and a lover of my own freedom, so I would never wish to impose my will onto another person. I am terrified of the urges for control and permanence that lurk inside me. I’m afraid of where they might take me, and so I never give voice to them — In fact, I rarely give voice to any of my desires at all. I let people do what they will without ever voicing my opinion. That’s the only way to truly avoid becoming the Dahmer in my mind. My method of control is to ask nothing, and give everything, hoping that one day another person will notice and choose to be devoted to me. But even then, they’d change on me. It’s in the nature of all living things.

I wrote about the Autistic fear of change, where it comes from, how it affects our relationships, and the many ways that we attempt to cope with change, both for good and for ill. It is free to read or have narrated to you on my Substack.

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see-arcane · 10 months ago

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Before the journal opened

Before it saved his life

Before Hell staked a claim

Before he swung his knife

A storm rolled in with the spring

And hope paved his long way

Through monsters and their red wants

He takes step one today.

WARNING: Contains some grisly imagery towards the end.

All free preview chapters are available on my Substack.

Harker

C.R. Kane

March to April

Spring rolled in more grey than green that week. It dribbled rain through morning and noon, pondering to itself whether it would save an encore for evening in the way of a proper storm. The songbirds and the street noise went on as best they could between showers. They made up the only true din in Jonathan Harker’s corner, not counting the hammering of the typewriter or an occasional rustle of sheets. The usual low cacophony of the firm had been whittled down immensely due to the cough that had been shared at the start of the week and sent the greater part of Peter Hawkins’ small legion home to hack and sniffle in private.

This left Jonathan somewhat abandoned, not counting Hawkins’ presence behind the office door. It was just as well. He’d been splitting his attention between the eternal tower of logistical and legal chores that ruled his desk and the shorthand notes made in preparation for his exam. Such had been his constant state for the past two months. There had been ribbing from all directions, some bemoaning the imminent loss of a load-bearing clerk, others saying now they could draw lots and boot someone else out the door, and still more wheedling about whether or not they could still drag him in place as a shield when clientele of a certain incendiary temperament came around. Please?

Jonathan had remained ominously mum. Groans and lamentations ensued.

This was a joke, of course. Young Mr. Harker was nothing if not dedicated to the task of transmuting Hawkins’ charity to a whipcord child fifteen years prior into a proper investment. Case in point, using a lull in his own workload to get things in order for those bedridden solicitors who had the nearest deadlines pending. Bentley idled through with his tea as he did and shook his head.

“Don’t know what it is that comes with your kind, Harker, but it’s a busier thing that any of us idle English have. We’re down two thirds of the building and here you are doing three-quarters of the work. Get the examination out of the way and you may as well tell the old man to retire.” A thoughtful sip came from behind the porcelain. “Must be something they teach you Gurkha sorts, eh? Some kind of discipline our doughy little English schoolboys never get knocked in their heads.”

Jonathan weighed the decision of whether or not to give Arnold Bentley his bimonthly reminder that he was, in fact, English by birth. His parents as well. But the reminder would likely fall into the same pit between the man’s ears where all the others had gone. Worse, it might risk a tally mark against him in whatever invisible score was kept by peers. The one that determined whether the combination of Jonathan’s physiognomy and disposition really were enough to pardon his status or not. He finished this measuring of scales in less than a blink. A smile was summoned.

“Not at all. Just helping where things can be helped.” He straightened a sheaf of forms back in order. “That, and I cannot go a day without productivity, or else I shall have to go home and carve my hand with the kukri knife in penance.”

Bentley paused halfway through his laugh when Jonathan held his gaze. He gawped over his cup.

“God. Really?”

“No, not really. My penmanship would suffer terribly.”

This spurred a louder guffaw from the man, likewise a rattling clap of his open palm to Jonathan’s shoulder. Then he was out like a breeze to carry on with whatever it was he had drifted from in his own territory of the building. Jonathan resumed his interrupted rhythm. Read. Check. Write. Type. Read. Check. Write. Type. So he went for another hour before his watch told him it was time to check the post.

He stepped out during a lull of rain. The thunder talked with itself in the slate-dark clouds, debating whether or not to turn the spigot on the moment the wad of envelopes was out in the open. Jonathan applauded himself on dodging the first drops of the deluge by seconds. Peeking through the window, he saw there were even a few fitful winks of lightning hopping through the sky. What few pedestrians were left went running for shops they had no interest in, restaurants they had no appetites for, and cabs that turned frustratingly scarce within the minute. Jonathan grimaced in premonition of the dash he and Mina would have to make under the umbrella once she was free of her students.

But that was for later. For now, he flipped through the day’s heap and dealt them out to the waiting desks, occupied or not. The last in the stack was a familiar packet and one of extraordinary make. It was patterned with the stamps of myriad countries with ornate flourishes in the writing. A thick crimson seal sporting a rearing dragon marked it as the second delivery from the same foreign estate that had written to Hawkins in February. A castle set in the backdrop of the Carpathians.

Jonathan had felt his heart twist the first time he’d handled a parcel from the address and it twisted doubly hard now. There had been time in the interim to start combing through Exeter’s libraries for any beginning details to have ready should Hawkins want some background to aid one of the solicitors, especially in the case of a potential trip. If the latter came to pass, it would mean a visit to London and a perusal of denser material. A fine enough excuse to wander the superior bookcases and the British Museum on its own. But the luster of the errand was already gone in his mind. The first glimpse of the prospective client’s territory in the first book he’d cracked open, wrought in illustrations and sparse photographs as it was, sent a spear of longing through Jonathan’s chest that still hadn’t left.

Why would anyone living there want to trade such a place for England?

Jonathan was not oblivious to the advantages of the country. He understood his good fortune in access to modern works, from amenities to entertainments; at least in theory. With cautious budgeting. But all his life had been spent in cramped rooms or congested streets. The presence of a park, a farmer’s field, a distant beach, or a picturesque cemetery were the nearest he would ever come to the broad and chainless beauty of places not yet stomped flat with bricks and smoke.

Imagine! Meadows and hills, valleys and forests, all topped with the great serrated crown of the mountains. Cities and villages worn smooth with generations going back through centuries.

Imagine being there with her. Seeing sunrise flood over the peaks, walking old roads and footpaths, tasting and seeing and playing and breathing in a place without its laces drawn like a noose around throat and purse. The trains alone would be enough for her, true, but we would find somewhere to stop. Somewhere in every swatch of the countryside. At some point, as she became lost in a view, in a meal, in a walk, she would see me on my knee and what I held in my hand, and the wedding could happen right there in an ancient chapel, and then…

But the fantasy turned to dust before it could finish.

The required funds were cudgel enough to smash the whole daydream to atoms. At most they might manage a trip someplace other than their usual heights of hedonism. That was, a brief trip to Piccadilly and back. Maybe a bit of theatre. Possibly a picnic. Perhaps even some further place in the Isles. Somewhere rich with quiet and history of its own, but likely not across the Channel. Never a locale so far and mythic as the place Hawkins’ new client seemed interested in abandoning. Jonathan pictured Hawkins writing back to the noble on his behalf, wailing at the stranger not to forsake his fairy tale castle for the doldrums of a Londoner’s garish crate of a manse, no matter how crusted in filigree.

Save yourself! Do not trade your mountains for an English molehill! Turn back, turn back!

But that would be a poor way to run the firm, wouldn’t it? Resigned, he brought the packet to Hawkins’ office and knocked at the door.

“It’s open, Jonathan.”

Jonathan ducked in with his smile already nailed in place. It was an expression he now had to work at as recent months plodded on and Peter Hawkins’ complexion failed to improve. The man behind the broad desk was only half as rubicund as he’d been the year before. He had insisted to everyone who dared ask that he was merely suffering from a particularly ugly attack of gout and that he would be fine in a week or so. As it stood, Hawkins could still sit up straight and bellow thanks when Jonathan came by with his delivery. He even turned a shade ruddier upon seeing the dragon’s seal.

“Well now,” he said through a grin. He turned the packet over and pointed it at Jonathan. “Have you taken lunch?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Go on and fill up quick. If this is what I believe it is, I expect I’ll need your ear within the hour.”

So saying, Hawkins slit the packet open and began to read. Jonathan dismissed himself with his fingers crossed in his pocket. Perhaps the British Museum wasn’t too far off after all. That and the London libraries. It would be too brief a visit for anything more extravagant than what Lucy referred to as his and Mina’s ‘academic holidays,’ but it would make an interesting exercise just the same. Plotting the trip was a pleasant enough distraction to eat to.

He finished just as he heard the tell-tale grunt and shuffle that meant Hawkins was hefting himself up to trudge around his desk. Jonathan flew to the door first, only just recalling to swat his knuckles against the wood before opening it. Hawkins looked up with a shock before gratefully flopping himself back into his chair.

“You have a dog’s hearing and cat’s feet. Ought to have a bell on you to give an old man some warning.”

“Apologies.”

“Nothing to apologize for. Saved me dragging myself around unduly.” Hawkins thumped a hand on the desk as if patting a horse. “I suppose I need to throw this out and trade desks with you. I can make it past that little square of yours in no time.” He thought further on it. “Less than a minute, anyhow.” He made a face that couldn’t decide itself between a smile or a grimace. “My doctor, who only seems to tell me what I already know, declares that I am not fit for any arduous travel. In his terms, that includes going further than the street corner on foot. Even a train ride is apparently a gamble, being that I should be in bed resting and rotting like a good patient rather than hobbling my way to and from the cab to work. Already I press his orders and my luck. Which means this,” he held up an envelope, “is out of the question for me.”

Jonathan recognized the torn envelope and scarlet seal. What held him up was the recognition that it was the first of the two packets. The February delivery.

“That’s unfortunate. Who was the client?”

Hawkins grinned in earnest now, purposefully turning the envelope so that the address was hidden.

“You tell me.”

Jonathan offered half a smile back. It was an old game that had begun years ago when he was still just a bookish boy underfoot, helping around the office for whatever could be spared for a child’s wage. Even then his eyes had been hungry things.

“Count Dracula, from the castle of the same name, of Transylvania. The address is from a Bistritz postal service situated in the Carpathians.”

“True and true.” Hawkins set the envelope on the desk and tapped it with a thick finger. “Curious taste in property, this one. Likely has the cravings of a renovator. No trouble on our side but for the hunting. But the esteemed gentleman is so damnably far into the Continent that I couldn’t rightly offer myself up in the way he’s asking. I ought to say, the way he insists upon buying. The way our Count puts it, he would rather pay every fee of travel for his English solicitor to and from his keep in the mountains, and play host on top, rather than, he says, ‘Suffer bartering land through stationery.’ In short, he’s willing to ship a solicitor to his door rather than play at this back-and-forth for all his questions, all out of his own pocket. He wants someone who’s not just going to find and sell the manner of place he’s after, but someone who can play encyclopedia if he’s unsure of something.”

“Hence him being prepared to rent out the owner of the firm for an in-person visit,” Jonathan finished. Hawkins gave a nod.

“And the owner might have been up for it a decade or so ago. But time marches and gout outweighs gold. So I fear that leaves me out of the picture.” Jonathan watched Hawkins fold his hands with a calculated laxness on the desk. “Your examination is coming up.”

Lightning flickered outside. More danced across Jonathan’s brain.

“Yes, sir. It is.”

“You have been my clerk since you were old enough to rent a flat,” Hawkins went on. “My apprentice and professional living plaster to this place well before that.”

“Yes,” Jonathan breathed more than spoke. He feared his vocabulary was leaking out both ears while his heart tried to climb his throat.

“And,” Hawkins half-leaned over the desk, “you have been holding onto her ring since last year. Haven’t you?”

Heat rushed up to Jonathan’s face as he got out, “…Yes. I have. Sir, are you—,”

Hawkins brandished the packet Jonathan brought through the door an hour ago. This he laid beside the February envelope so that the pair of them seemed like strange square eyes staring up at him.

“I need you to understand: This is not an offer as much as a prayer. If there’s no chance with you, that means Bentley is the next choice. He’s my longest running man here and is liable to set up his own firm before the decade’s out. But for all that, and for all that he is a trustworthy one to patter with most Englishmen, I would sooner trust a cat with a lame canary than Bentley to not choke on his own tongue with a foreigner. Clients of noble lineage included. The man can barely toe his way around an Irishman let alone anyone from across the Channel. And, since the door is shut and no one is around to cry nepotism, I can speak the unvarnished truth.

“You could do with one week what anyone else here could manage inside a month and have it done better. That is not me being rosy about the past or present, that is me having eyes that work and a basis of comparison between how things ran before you began working here and after. The after is smooth as silk compared to the pre-Harker gravel. Stable gravel, I allow, but not nearly as easy a burden as things became once you were attacking the paperwork. And the footwork.” Hawkins raised a caterpillar brow at him. “Any good finds in the local bookshelves?”

“Not as many as I hoped,” Jonathan thought he heard himself say. It was hard to tell as he seemed to have relocated to some remote island in his skull and could only register what was happening as if from across an ocean. “I wanted to stop by the options in London if I had the chance. Just to gather some background on the client’s location if it was needed.”

“I’d say it is,” Hawkins hummed. “Supposing you can tell me you have your schedule open for some traveling come May.”

Jonathan told him it was. Hawkins told him to go to the corner cabinet and move the bust of Alexander off the high shelf. Then to bring down the bottle and two tumblers. There were toasts and there was talk and there was a laughing chide from the older man as he shooed Jonathan’s pocket notebook back from whence it came. No notes today, young man. At least not right now. Actually, perhaps one for later. Did he have time open to visit a tailor? There was a travel budget that was about to go unused if the Count was to have his way. It may as well go toward a good cause. Hawkins could hardly send his best solicitor to a noble’s door without looking his best, and it was for the firm’s image, really, so it could hardly be helped, and the doctor couldn’t grudge him such paltry exercise as going to harangue a suit seller…

Jonathan’s eyes burned and his face ached with smiling. He was mortified to find himself close to a sob before turning the sound into a coughing laugh. Hawkins told him to drink, not inhale. That turned the next sound into a true chuckle. He couldn’t tell whether it was an effect of the liquor or his own imagination that made it seem as if the thunder was laughing too.

“Transylvania,” Mina said for the dozenth time.

“Transylvania,” Jonathan echoed. He turned to face her rather than cling to the charade that either of them were focused enough to continue their mutual study. His pile included the texts that had come to haunt his subconscious with its rules and rites of property law, now with the hypnotic temptation of the library books waiting just an arm’s length away. Mina, who Jonathan knew was as much or more a pillar of solid focus than himself, had not a mote of attention to spare for the papers taken from the realm of educational etiquette or her personal project of mirroring and translating his shorthand. The latter made a certain gleeful anticipation turn over in his stomach. It left him floundering between elation and anxiety with equal force until he thought he might lose his last meal on the floorboards.

Which would be a shame, as he and Mina had combined their efforts into a delightful result in Jonathan’s narrow kitchen. Jonathan had only half-jokingly implied that they were making a child’s ideal feast because he was, in fact, giddy as a boy who’d just shaken hands with Father Christmas. Mina had declared this was nonsense.

“A supper made of breakfast is an entirely sound culinary decision.”

“Yes, Miss Murray,” in his best schoolboy tone. “Did you want crêpes or toast?”

“Crêpes. Extra cream.”

They had giggled like children over their respective plates. Just as they did over the rapidly ignored chores they had planned for themselves after. It was the frightful intoxication of feeling the future unrolling into a new smiling mystery before them. One that whispered, yes, yes, this is real, this is coming true. A future that might include…

Jonathan gulped down a heavy lump of air as his gaze flicked again to the sheet of shorthand messages he had scribbled out for her to translate. She had stopped halfway through. Close, close, close. But he didn’t let his stare linger. Instead he found her face again, still glowing. Jonathan was forever surprised that he had not dreamt her up as a boy and continued dreaming her until now. It surprised him more that he had managed to earn her love and dumbfounded him entirely to think that she regarded herself in the same terms. More, that she insisted she was the luckier half of their equation. He did not follow her meaning then, nor did he think he ever would.

“Mina, anyone with a sliver of sense in their head would feel the same for you,” he had insisted more than once. Each time she had smiled and shaken her head. Her eyes forever bright with a sweet-somber knowledge he couldn’t decipher.

“There is plenty of sense to spare. Loving hearts as well. But there is a different lens that women see the world through and it shows things men shall never have to see. It shows so much to watch for. To be wary of, or to hope for, or to know not to expect because life has made it clear that so much of what’s dreamt of only exists for a few, while the rest make do with storybooks and stage plays.” Her hand had held tight in his. “You were not meant to exist outside the borders of a fairy tale, Jonathan Harker. That you cannot see as much for yourself makes me wonder if someone really did peel you off a page and if you will vanish back to a fair princess somewhere when I wake up.”

“That implies I am either a prince or some clever farmhand. I’m cut out for neither. I am a squire at best. Though I would not settle for a mere princess either way, however fair.” He had dared a grin at her. “Or have you already forgotten Mrs. Westenra’s unique stance on the matter?”

Memory had nettled Mina out of her glumness with a sputter that tried and failed not to turn into shamefaced laughter. She had improved somewhat in the years since the incident itself, back when the whole ring of persons involved had flamed with embarrassment over the misunderstanding of Jonathan’s presence when spotted with Miss Lucille Westenra and her companion Miss Mina Murray now that all of them had stretched out of childhood and into the far end of adolescence. Followed by the ensuing inquiry as to why Mr. Harker had been baffled at the very concept of seeking to gain Miss Westenra’s affection as anything more than a friend.

Jonathan remembered sitting in one of the gilded rooms of the Westenra estate, sat across from Lucy’s increasingly rose-faced mother as she came to the belated realization that Mina Murray’s young man was not trying to court anyone other than Mina Murray. Worse, it had been left on his shoulders to steer the conversation out of potential wreckage by thanking his hostess for clearly being concerned on Mina’s own behalf, as there were too many people in the world who took the notion of seeking out a secret paramour behind another’s back as a matter of course. He was heartened to know that Mrs. Westenra cared enough to be mindful should an actual cad come into the orbit of her daughter or her friends.

Still flushed, Mrs. Westenra had chased agreement in this, poured on apologies for the mistake and had thankfully never brushed the topic since. Though Lucy had words enough to spare on the matter for months afterward. She had languished at them in the garden about it, the image of woe in peach blossom tailoring.

“Jonathan, I fear we must become enemies,” she’d intoned gravely. “You must walk with a cane in hand and I must brandish my parasol so that we keep our distance and never risk breathing the same air. We cannot even deafen poor Mina’s ears with the Bard or eavesdroppers will take us knowing the lines of Hamlet and Ophelia as proof of a tryst. Perhaps we should go around with our hats pulled down over our eyes, lest we give into temptation and acknowledge each other’s existence while being the opposite sex. It is our only chance of salvation.”

“Miss Lindon again?” from Mina, her smile placid. Jonathan knew she wore the same callused shell he did when it came to the patter that trickled down from higher tiers than theirs. Those tiers were many and their squabbles almost alien in what they deemed worth sniping about behind their fans and cigars. The infamous Miss Lindon was apparently a thorn too serrated even for Lucy’s compassion to withstand.

“Very much Miss Lindon again. ‘He would just do for you, Lucy.’ As though she thought I would be doing a charity by going behind my friend’s back and she were doing a charity by her sneering compliment. At least nature was kind enough to spare me having to think of a similarly charitable rebuttal, as a beetle helpfully flew into her hair a moment later and she went running. One must take silver linings when they come. Unrelatedly, Jonathan, when you do become a solicitor in full, should Miss Lindon and her future beau ever approach you for a house..?”

“I shall do what I can to find them a lovely estate,” Jonathan assured. “In Northumberland.”

“Next door to an entomologist?” Mina asked over her cup.

“Of course.”

Jonathan blinked the recollection away, wondering whether it was the dizziness of the day or the ticking of the clock between Mina and the final line of shorthand that was making his mind slosh. Perhaps it was simply the subconscious’ effort to dodge the weight of the evening and what it might promise. His thoughts were fleeing to hide from hope and worry. But Mina knew him too well. She caught him with her eyes before pulling him back into the headiness of the present.

“You will do fantastically, Jonathan. Tell me you know it as well as I do.”

“I will not say I know it. Too much confidence risks laziness. I will only say that I shall give all of myself to the task. It must be done so it will be done. If I think any further than that simple fact, my head will burst.”

“If you do, I promise to sweep you up and put your pieces back in order.” Her smile softened an increment as her hand settled in his. “I mean it.” She squeezed. He squeezed back.

“The same goes for you. We are neither of us allowed to hold ourselves together with string and brittle smiles once the door is between us and,” Jonathan flapped his free hand at the rain-streaked window, “all of that. No acting when it’s us alone.” He flashed her a decidedly less-than-brittle smile. “I promise not to tattle to your girls.”

“You were bad enough today, Mr. Harker. Half the classes were watching.” Her voice tutted, but the grin showed in her eyes. Jonathan had arrived at the school with the umbrella in one hand and a bouquet in the other. A bundle of her beloved lilies that he’d used as a screen behind which to steal a kiss and drop the announcement of Hawkins’ assignment in her ear. Forgetting her audience, Mina had kissed him back, forgetting to mask herself behind the petals. They had absconded to the cab to the sound of a dozen girls cooing their farewells, Miss Murray, see you tomorrow, Miss Murray, has he got a brother, Miss Murray?

“Hardly a terrible thing. If you are one of their examples, mustn’t they have something to look forward to at the end of all their practice?” He assumed a pose of scheming innocence, lashes batting. “I could be especially nefarious come Valentine’s Day. Take a holiday from Hawkins and show up toting chocolates and train tickets and a florist’s worth of flowers.”

“You will do no such thing.”

“I can hire an orchestra to follow us around. Have them play waltzes the whole day.”

“Jonathan.”

“No, of course, an orchestra would be too cumbersome. A singer and a violin, perhaps. I can hire a paperboy to throw rose petals after us. Or else I could send them up to the classroom to follow you in procession out of the building…”

The typewriter hammered back to life. Its keys were struck with more force than they needed.

“Sorry,” Mina sang above the din, “no hearing you over this. You will have to be a foul minion of Eros a little louder.” Jonathan bit his tongue against a reply. Yes, she was typing again. Yes, she was reading the last of the shorthand. Tap-tap-tap, clack-clack-clack. So far it was all the lines of a love note—a common enough surprise, if one that fished more than the usual dimpled grin out of her tonight—and she had not caught on yet to the conclusion. “How long will the client need you over there?”

“Between the travel to the estate, the stay, and the return trip, the whole thing should be over within early May. I shall have time to hoard you a while before you and Lucy have your summer escape to the coast. Was it Whitby?”

“Yes, quite near the landmark Abbey. I mean to harass the townspeople with demands for any ghost stories they might spare about the place. Perhaps Marmion is but a single drop in a sea of waiting legends.”

Tap-tap-tap.

“Then I shall try to collect what I can abroad in turn,” Jonathan said from behind a fan of notes. He kept only the corner of his eye pinned on the swimming lines. “There should be spirits in abundance along the route.”

Clack-clack-clack.

“I would think so. But don’t settle for ghosts alone! I shall happily adopt any devils or revenants or folkloric fiends the locals can share—,”

Her voice died mid-key.

Jonathan looked over the top of his pages. Mina sat frozen as a sculpture. Her hands still hovered at the typewriter, lax and immobile. But her eyes were in motion. Flicking back, forward, and back again between Jonathan’s shorthand and the five words they had translated to in plain ink.

Will you marry me, Wilhelmina?

By the time she finally turned her head back to face him, he was already on the floor, swift and silent at her hip. The box sat open in his hand. Set inside was a petite gold band whose stone gleamed like a fleck of starlight.

Mina looked from the ring to its holder with eyes that were already spilling.

“Yes,” Jonathan heard a dozen, a hundred times in the ensuing night. Yes, yes, yes, a thousand, a million times, yes. Between kisses, between tastes, between touches and takings that skirted the furthest edge of propriety between unmarried bodies. Yes.

“We are engaged. We must prepare for the wedding night as one must study ahead of an examination. Isn’t that right, Miss Murray?”

“It is, Mr. Harker.” Then, furtive despite her position over him, she grew a smile both shy and sly. A lure surrounded by the hanging curtain of her hair, “…Can you say it? For practice’s sake.” He did not have to ask her meaning.

“Mina Harker.”

Her teeth bared in a white moon.

“I didn’t quite hear you. Say again?” As she asked, her hand moved. He gasped in the trap of it.

“My pronunciation must be off. How is this?” His own hand moved. Her eyes went wide and dark. “Mina Harker. Mina Harker. Mina Harker.”

More practice unspooled. Harker, husband, wife, I do, I will. Around and around again until their tongues ran dry and they were left folded into the tangle of each other, their last fig leaf still reserved for the nuptial night itself. As midnight rolled past, the storm slipped off with it and left the moon to throw its rays through the edges of the curtains. Mina’s ring trapped its glow on her knuckle. He almost wept to look at it.

Real. This is real. I am awake and this is real. God, God. Thank you.

“Thank you,” he murmured into the top of her head. Her hair massed into a perfect curling cloud under his chin. The cloud tickled there as she lifted her gaze to him.

“For what?”

“You know.”

“If I must say, ‘You’re welcome,’ so must you.” Jonathan held his tongue. “Exactly.” Her hand cupped his cheek as she went on, “I feel much the same. Like a lottery was won and the prize is an unfair gift by dint of how precious it is compared to the recipient. By how that prize refuses to acknowledge their own value. But there is time yet to filter that all down into something better. We will have our vows to smother each other with and neither of us will be able to shush and insist, no, no, I am the luckier one. All while the pews roll their eyes. For tonight I ask that we have a truce. No deprecation, no hoisting onto pedestals. Just for now, we will pretend we each feel equal to the blessing of the other. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Good.” Mina lifted herself high enough to find his lips with hers. “I love you, Jonathan.”

“I love you, Mina.” He mouthed the words to himself long after she had fallen asleep atop his heart. I love you, Mina. I love you, Mina Murray. I love you, Mina Harker. I love you. Thank you.

Jonathan faced the covered window and the sliver of pane visible at the cloth’s edge. He spotted the moon hovering in a split among the breaking rainclouds. As sleep finally found him, he could not shake an unpleasant certainty that he was looking at a great glowing eye. And that it was staring back.

Jonathan discovered Carfax Abbey on a clear blue day. His immediate impressions of the place ran in quick succession. First, that the location was so precise in its accommodation of Count Dracula’s specifications that it might have been commissioned. Second, that it looked like a place meant only to exist after dark on a sinister moor. This remained true despite the brilliance of spring stubbornly budding along the edge of its high stone fence.

He sent back a late thanks to himself as he’d been that morning, when he had tossed a coin on whether or not to bring the Kodak with him for the day’s hunt. Though the cab would be trusted to take him to the general area, it would be down to more literal footwork to inspect the properties he hoped to survey as far as he could without increasing the fare. Which would not bother him too much if he were going light. He did have a fondness for a run when it could be gotten away with sans pedestrians. But there would be no jogging with the camera to mind. Only a steady trudge.

Yet even that predicted march was trimmed down to a mere amble by dint of the cabman’s suggestion. He had heard out Jonathan’s description of his ideal quarry and first assumed him to be a tourist who’d gotten lost in a search for haunted houses.

“The area hasn’t much in that way, lad. Only place that comes close is old Carfax. Used to be an abbey, but looks more like a hideaway for the Dark Ages’ ghouls.”

“Do you know if it’s for sale?” This had earned him an odd look before the cabman admitted he had seen a sign staked out front that might have claimed the place was available. Supposing one cleared away the accumulated grime.

“I have to wonder if your buyer will bother with such a place. Ghosts can be dealt with, but it has more unsavory living neighbors to deal with.”

“Who are they?”

“Can’t say I know them personally, thank God, but I know for certain they’re perfectly mad.”

“Really?”

“Well, they’d not be in a private madhouse otherwise.”

The cab passed said lunatic asylum en route to the site. Jonathan was happy to note that it was at least a stately building, clearly a former domestic estate that had been expanded into suitable proportions for the inmates and staff. Better still, it was so far from Carfax as to be invisible through the facility’s wall of tended trees even when standing outside the latter’s stonework border.

Seeing the composition of said fence’s rough stones had plucked at Jonathan’s boyhood itch for play. If it were not for the cabman as a witness, he might have clambered his way up and walked along the edge as he’d done around his aunt’s home before he was declared too old for such nonsense. Still musing, Jonathan thanked the man again for the find and paid for the ride, promising another fare if he would return in an hour’s time. The cabman hesitated even after he had taken the first half of the pay.

“You’re certain you’d rather not go up the whole road first? There aren’t many houses, but they’re each of them empty and all far less a stain on the eye than that evil heap of rocks.”

“Do any of the rest have a chapel attached?”

“Don’t believe so. But if your buyer’s so keen on his prayers he ought to make do with a trip to church like the rest of us.”

“I imagine he means to refurbish it for that very purpose.” Jonathan offered a smile. “I’m certain whatever spirits might be lurking will have to clear out once he’s put the place in order.”

“Or torn the bloody thing down,” the cabman muttered not quite under his breath. He huffed and checked his watch. “An hour, you said? Just to wander around the place?”

“To wander here and across the neighboring grounds. I need to take note of the full landscape as well as the estate.” The cabman snorted at this in time with his horse.

“I hope your buyer is paying what you’re worth, lad. Any more on his list and he’d have you mapping out all of Purfleet to be sure it suits his fancy.” When the cab pulled away Jonathan began the photography. As much as he could manage from outside the fence. But then, because there were no witnesses, and because there was no way of opening the gate without ruining the rusted lock, and because it really wouldn’t be a thorough survey of the property without a glimpse of things on the inside of the towering stone walls, Jonathan shouldered his bag and scaled the rock as blithely as a spider.

He landed in the shade under one of the sundry trees that crowded the interior grounds. Jonathan marveled at how the trees’ shadows and that of the hulking abbey combined to hold a permanent dusk in place. So much so that it was a challenge to find any well-lit spots in which to take pictures without losing details. Up close the chapel was no less imposing than the abbey. It stood apart in its overgrown gothic solitude while the abbey puffed itself out with late additions to the structure. Jonathan made a note to reserve some pictures for Mina once he’d set aside an album for the Count. Sadly there was no letting himself indoors without becoming a full intruder, and so he satisfied himself with touring the rest of the land. A tour he was happy to make at a run.

The camera and his bag were set carefully aside with the chapel to manage this—for he must manage it, seeing as the grounds seemed to cover no less than twenty acres—and sent another belated thanks to his morning self for donning more active shoes than his workplace pair. While the place was no forest, it was an easy enough copse to imagine as such. A private patch of woodlands in which he had no one to be mindful of on a trail or blush over as they gawked at him, wondering what his hurry was. Here the exercise even bore fruit in the form of revealing a pond set at the estate’s southern end. A pool clear with spring water and trickling a faint stream through a grate into denser growth beyond the rear gates. Another run and a returning walk ensured this too got its photograph.

It was as he took these pictures that he saw the place even had some refreshment in the way of brambleberries snarling their way along the masonry. They were still some months away from being in season, but the desire to steal a piece of their thorny nest to plant his own shrub gnawed. At least until he reminded himself it would be hopeless with his current lodging. A mint tin of a flat slotted wall-to-wall with the rest of the street. Mina’s was worse still, he knew. When they married, they would pool their funds to find somewhere with a little girdle of a garden around it. Or else they would have window-boxes to grow things for the kitchen. Or both. Just a wedge of greenery to tame and taste for themselves.

For now, he satisfied himself with adding it to the marital itinerary and took out his notebook to jot the impressions of Carfax Abbey as he had for half a dozen other estates, all of them falling short on one preference or another. Too new, too near to the hub of a city, too compact, too bright, and, most damning, not a single chapel to spare among them. At least, none that were not in use by the general public. He would likely run around for another couple weeks to check on other prospective options, but he held little hope for a finer match than Carfax.

Carfax, Carfax. I wonder…

The notebook was tucked away in exchange first for his watch, which showed he’d somehow burned only twenty minutes, and then a compass. A minor note from the Count had mentioned a desire to have, ‘an open sky with which to see all the night and day, the dusks and dawns, without men’s brick and smoke in their way.’ Jonathan could not fault such a wish and so had brought the compass to see if he might happen upon a house with the view clear for the east’s sunrise and the west’s sunset. The compass revealed he had done even better with the abbey.

‘Carfax.’ Quatre Face. A four-sided house with its walls facing the four cardinal directions. All clear of any rooftops and their belching chimneys. I’m sure it will please you, Count.

The thought sank his joy like a stone. Jonathan looked again at the abbey. Haunted and a relic of dead centuries, true, but a place of dignity and grand dimensions all the same. A voice rose up in him with smiling malice as he stared at it.

You will never have such space. You will never have a home so broad that Mina can have rooms all for herself and more for the daydream of children. You will live close to all the fruits of a metropolis, as near as the gutters themselves, and only ever know what it is to skim them, to borrow them, to daydream without laying your lesser hands on them except to use them for another. You will have neither the sprawling beauty of nature or the boons of modernity. Not for your entire life, Jonathan Harker.

And, because he could not stop the flow once it was running:

She should have found someone better. Someone with more than your scraps to offer.

He ground the heel of his palm against each eye until they dried.

“What would she say?”

Something kind you do not deserve.

Jonathan shook his head and marveled at the paradox that still found its way to nettle him even with the ring on her finger. Perhaps because of it. It was the miserable uncertainty of the hours preceding his examination turned up a hundredfold. Time, experience and evidence all stood in favor of him passing his tests on the professional and romantic fronts, yes, yes, he knew it…

…But what if he didn’t? What if he had somehow fooled himself and Mina and Hawkins and peers and the world itself into thinking he was more than what he was? What if?

What if you stop wallowing and get out before the cab returns?

Jonathan stopped long enough to skip a stone across the pond before following his route back to where he’d clambered over the wall. With half an hour to spare, he began walking at a healthy gait across the spread of land between the abbey and the asylum. If only to say he knew how many paces it was between the properties. One, two, three, four, five…

The pacing turned irregular once he had to cross through the border of trees that stood for a property line between Carfax and its company. Jonathan was stunned to discover there was no proper fence hidden behind the picturesque rows. Only a walled and gated section at the rear of the asylum that suggested an area for outdoor excursion or perhaps a private kitchen garden. He hoped it was the former. Even the insane needed leave to stretch their legs beyond the borders of a cell. As he mulled this, he heard a shout. It sounded like it held the weight of every expletive known to the English tongue and several more beyond it.

Following this was the same livid voice grating seemingly out of thin air, “Idiot! Fool! One damned page and you do this?” Jonathan heard a clatter of hollow things against a wall. “Imbecile!” He stepped fully beyond the wall of trees and saw the voice’s owner pacing back and forth inside a barred window set at the foot of the asylum’s wall.

“Sir? Are you alright?” Jonathan was almost as surprised as the man in the window to realize he had not only spoken, but come closer. There was an instant in which the man tensed. The picture of one who’s realized someone of influence has caught them in a bad moment. Yet upon actually seeing Jonathan and recognizing his lack of import, he relaxed enough to smile. Albeit sourly.

“Apart from this most inconvenient stint of homemaking, courtesy of concerned friend and kin, I am quite fine, young man. Ebullient, ecstatic, elated.” The polite rictus hardened. Jonathan thought queasily of wild dogs. “Apart from the fact that I have lost the last of my stationery to an overfilled glass. My cup runneth over. My cup ruins days of work and turns the remaining space to so much waste. Just look!”

The man thrust something up to the gaps in the bars, stopping just short of throwing the spoiled pinch of paper out onto the grass. For it was spoiled. Jonathan saw the stationery was really little more than a large cut of butcher paper folded and refolded until it made a sort of accordion-book. The whole thing was so waterlogged that Jonathan could barely tell tally marks from letters as the crayon bled together and the pages sagged.

“Ruined,” the man punctuated with what was either a sneer or a sulk. “At best I can try to mash and dry the thing out as a new sheet. But the stuff was already muddy enough to write on and I shall have to reduce myself to the penmanship of an infant with the bluntest marks just to make anything legible. And I had just started to make progress.” He cocked his gaze more fully at Jonathan. His look was one accustomed to giving brisk appraisal. “If you are a journalist, you are quite tardy with your pen. You’ve not even set up your camera’s tripod to record the travesty.”

“I am no journalist, unfortunately,” Jonathan admitted as he unearthed his notebook. “But at least that leaves some of this to work with, if you’re amenable.” Covering the shorthand of the last full page, he showed the man in the window the remaining blank sheets. Not a great many pages left, and certainly not of impressive size considering it was a pocketbook, but it would be a fair amount of writing space for a careful script. The man’s expression did not change, but his eyes brightened.

“I may be. Supposing I know the price at the other end of such a trade.”

“No price, sir. You would do me a kindness in taking it as I shall have to start a fresh one for another project soon. The predecessor would be left unfinished and forgotten in the meantime.”

“Ah, a worse fate than a journalist. An author. How many poor diaries have you left abandoned in their pretty bindings for the sake of a new volume?” The man clicked his tongue through a grin. “I jest, of course. You do not seem the sort to waste what he has.” The grin, still genuine, flattened an increment. Bloodshot eyes gleamed. “I fear I wasted a great deal of what I once thought mine on the other side of these delightful accommodations. Never make such a mistake as mine, young man. Do not doubt for an instant that what you trust today cannot turn on you tomorrow.”

“I won’t, sir.” Jonathan thought of adding that he had lived under that knowledge since the day he attended the funerals which ended his childhood. He swallowed it back. “May I..?” He held the notebook up, his shorthand sheets pinched between thumb and forefinger.

“I would be most grateful.”

Jonathan tore his filled pages neatly out. The remaining clean pages were barely thicker than a pamphlet, but clung sturdily to the little spine. Jonathan knelt low enough to lay it within reach on the grass. He noticed a small dusting of white powder at the window’s edge. A crowd of ants whittled away at the mound.

“Ants,” the man scoffed as he followed Jonathan’s line of sight. “Pitiful company. I had hoped the thaw would bring in something heartier. Flies, ladybugs, perhaps some early butterflies. But the real trouble is keeping them around. Ah, apologies, might you bring it a little closer?” The man raised his forearms into view. “I haven’t the best angle from where I stand.” Jonathan scooped up the notebook and brought it an inch nearer.

The man’s hands were abruptly out through the bars and clapped around Jonathan’s. Tight. Short of hurting, short of breaking, but locked as firmly as a vise. Jonathan tensed without pulling back. Again he thought of wild dogs. Of things that only seemed to be dogs until they closed in. Creatures that chased once they saw something run.

Jonathan was still. The man was still. Grasping Jonathan’s hand and the notebook in a pantomime prayer.

It’s my left hand. Smart enough for that, at least. I can still do my paperwork with the right intact and the other broken. Will the fingers heal in time for Mina to slip the band on? How mortifying to have to explain it all to her. I wonder if the asylum would make up a cast without charging for it…

“There is no need to shake upon it, sir,” Jonathan heard himself say. “The book is yours.” The man regarded him with less of a smile now. His lip still curled, but it seemed only to hold on by sheer will. It dropped entirely with the gust of a sigh.

“The book and a lack of tact, I fear. Even if I were not mad, I would still be a churl.” The hands relaxed and a set of fingers drummed once on the back of Jonathan’s wrist. “Though I suspect you are a soul used to them. I would tell you to be more wary on your way, but it is only a simpleton of a preacher who would bother teaching his flock wariness in a world where they must interact each day with wolves. Though I will advise that it is rather foolish to go around making conversation with confirmed lunatics up close. I am confirmed, you know. The facts are printed and signed all over by professionals. I saw the document myself.” The man’s look floated away from Jonathan and into a distance he couldn’t guess at. “Printed on far finer paper than what we settle for.”

One of the gripping hands came away, leaving only the one folded over the notebook and Jonathan’s palm. They shook. The notebook was collected in the same gesture.

“My thanks,” from the window.

“Quite welcome,” as Jonathan righted himself. He surprised himself with his own steadiness. The rote pitch of the office and a life’s worth of reflex steered his tongue while mind, heart, and stomach rattled where they hid. Because he had to do something with his freed hand rather than clasp it in its brother, he fished out his watch. Only now did a ripple of worry manage to rise to his face.

“Some trouble?”

“I fear I may have lost my ride.”

“You came from the by-road, yes? It hardly sees traffic. If your driver’s gone on without you, go around the front here and see if you cannot bribe our beloved head doctor into lending out the wagon. Just say you have managed to wring a whole quarter of an hour’s worth of nattering from his friend R.M.”

“R.M.?”

“Short for Mr. Rig R. Mortis.” The man chuckled at Jonathan’s look. “Pseudonym, young man. Can hardly have the family being shamed under my real title. He will know who you mean. Though I do hope you manage your ride instead.” With that, the man ducked back from the window and was gone. Jonathan had made it three strides away when the voice called behind him, “Here!” Something small struck the back of Jonathan’s heel. He turned and saw gold winking up at him. A sovereign. “It is not payment. You are merely ensuring the attendant who lost it when I had my last room search never gets it back.”

“Sir—,”

But the window was already abandoned. Jonathan picked the coin up. It was partially obliterated on one end, erasing part of Victoria’s face and the rider on the reverse. This was because the edge had been ground to a sharp edge that nicked his thumb open as he turned it over. Blood smeared Saint George, his steed, and the dragon hissing up at the sword and hooves.

Cold fingers seemed to walk up his spine as he examined it. Shaking the chill away, he tucked the coin in his pocket alongside the notebook’s harvested pages and dashed back the way he’d come. He made it to the waiting cab just as it was pulling up to the gate.

“Well, lad? Is it what your buyer’s after?”

“I believe so.” Jonathan smiled as he said it and held the expression admirably until the cabman turned his gaze back to the road. He gloved his hands despite the balmy weather, sheathing his thumb as it traced the thin impression of the cargo sitting against his breast.

“If you keep up with that you shall tear the whole cheek off,” she said at his shoulder. “You are awake, I promise.”

Jonathan stopped pinching at himself and split his attention between Mina’s face and the clock’s. The magic circle of Roman numbers seemed to shake a phantom head. No, it said, not yet. But soon.

“This is happening, then?” he asked as he turned fully to Mina. Mina, here at the last moment together until mid-May. Mina, wearing the ring he had saved a year for on her finger. Mina, who had clasped and kissed and kept him from collapsing outright in stupefied relief upon the announcement that he had passed his examination, her fiancé now a solicitor. Mina, who held his hand and kept him from floating off through the ceiling and into the sky. “This is really happening? Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.” Jonathan’s eye traveled to her neck and the glimpse of a cord peeking from her shirt collar. She caught him and spared her free hand to tuck it out of sight. “Just as I am sure you will not fly off with my treasure, you magpie.”

The treasure being Jonathan’s own plain gold band now worn as a necklace. He had been the one to slip it over her head the night before, mesmerized by the soft shine as it landed over her heart. It was done by mostly mutual agreement. Mina wished to hold a scrap of tradition close and leave his hand bare until they reached the chapel. And, though Jonathan suspected this was mere theatre, she said she wished to hold onto it as proof to herself that she was awake and that the engagement was a reality. Besides, it was practical! If he were wearing the cord on his trip, what if he should lose it in any number of countries as he traveled? It was one thing to risk forgetting it at the office or leaving it at home. Quite another to imagine losing it in a hotel in another nation. Even with all this logic at her disposal, Jonathan donned his best moue. Mina covered it with her hand.

“That is unfair.”

“I am not above unscrupulous tactics, Mrs. Harker.”

“Like trying to break me by calling me Mrs. Harker?”

“Possibly.”

“Well, you are foiled. My will is too great.” She brought her hand away to brush a strand of hair from his brow. “There is no need to scheme anyway. You shall have the thing back soon enough.”

Jonathan pretended not to hear the slight tremor at the word ‘soon.’ Yes, it was only a few weeks’ separation. A month at most if there were delays in train or coach. But even in this zenith of excitement, knowing unequivocally that this was where their future began—a future where they were taking their first steps up rather that walking the same flat circle in the dust—it felt strangely like waiting to leap into a chasm. A gorge that required endless paperwork to keep track of, plus what was required for the travel itself. Documentation, letter of credit, passport, polyglot dictionary, and, carefully packed, the first new suit he’d had in three years.

Mina had insisted on his modeling it before packing it away. After, she declared she must send a letter of gratitude to not only Mr. Hawkins, but to the tailor. They would have to see him again about the suit for the wedding. Lucy had already written back in response to Mina’s last letter with the announcement, erupting with insistence that, while she was not the sort of girl to live and die by fashion plates, she wanted to know the very instant she began hunting for a dress.

In the present, however, the only new attire was the coat Jonathan wore. A companion piece Hawkins had insisted join the suit before Jonathan could escape the tape measure. Jonathan’s hand drifted up to one of its pockets now and found it unexpectedly light. Worry spiked for a moment before his mind caught up to what it was he’d been feeling for. He almost laughed. Mina canted her head at him, searching. She never missed even the most minute shift behind his eyes.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Only I’ve realized I was so adamant about packing everything for the needs of the trip and the client that I forgot the one item I meant to bring solely for me.”

“Your books?”

“No, the law texts are there. A bit of Dumas as well. But I have forgotten my book.” He offered a bashful smile. “Ours, I mean. For your assignment.”

Her brow furrowed a moment before she recalled, “The journal?”

“Yes. I meant to grab one of the spare pocketbooks from my desk, but it’s not in its place. Maybe I bundled it in the case without thinking.” If not, he could shave out a little of his emergency budget for something en route to the castle. But Mina was beaming at him.

“An ordinary pocketbook might suffice for a clerk, but not a solicitor. Especially not when I’ve held onto this since you turned your back to peruse the dictionaries two months back.” She brought out her reticule as she spoke. From the reticule came a slim leatherbound volume with supple pages made to resist the traitorous smudges and tears of its precursor’s flimsy leaves. The whole thing was tied with a white ribbon that pinned a matching pen to its cover. “All shorthand. Promise?”

“Promise,” Jonathan nodded as he took the book gingerly from her hand. It fit so perfectly in the coat that it failed to even dent cloth. “Though I don’t believe the same applies to the recipes. Which I shall collect in abundance and inflict upon us both once I return. Is there anything specific you want me to bring back?”

“You know my tastes already.”

“Other than the cuisine, I mean.”

“Nothing comes immediately to mind. A good story or two would be nice, but,” again her hand found his face, cupped against the angle of his cheek, “as long as you come back, I will be satisfied.”

“I suppose that can be managed.”

The clock tolled and the call went out to the station. All aboard, come along. Mina’s eyes flicked with brief wonder to the train itself. Locomotives and their railways had been one of her chief interests for as long as Jonathan had known her. She regarded her copy of Bradshaw’s Guide with the same reverence as some did their Bible, to say nothing of the clipped articles she had collected concerning new routes and models being laid out within various countries. In sum, Mina loved the practicality and potential of trains. To her they were proof that their world was not limited by whether or not they could hail a hansom or how far it was willing to take them. But now her smile dimmed.

“It had better bring you back on time,” she said as they walked arm and arm up to his car. “I shall be standing in this very spot with my watch out.”

“I’ll warn the conductor.” Because they were among strangers, she had allowed him to hold her arm rather than the reverse. He gave a gentle squeeze first to her arm, then her hand. The lump of the stone stood out under her glove. “If it runs late, I will simply run ahead.” Her laugh did little to hide the dew in her eyes. It matched the mist in his. Their hands held tight.

In that moment, an absurd impulse leapt up in him. An animal-twitch of fear that went deeper than mere anxiety, deeper than love, deeper than concern of career or separation or wandering in unknown lands. It was the needling of a sense he had no name for. A thing that smelled or heard or tasted some imperceptible sign that bodily and mental awareness refused to acknowledge. It whispered:

Do not go. Do not do this. Go home. Go now. Before it’s too late.

The whisper froze him. Mina appeared to freeze with him. Her eyes reflected a feverish glimmer of his own disquiet. They stood locked in that second like a hart and doe with their ears pricked toward a huntsman’s tread in the wood.

But then they blinked. Mina’s gaze lightened and the uncanny sensation left Jonathan as quickly as it came. Only a shudder of nerves disguised as a portent. Really, he could hardly bow to it even if it had meant anything beyond a hiccough of his own fretting. Fact outweighed fear and the fact was he had a job to do. A job that began here, now, with the release of Mina’s hand so he might grab his other bag from her.

Thus unburdened, Mina abruptly trapped his face between her palms. Jonathan bent down until his mouth met hers. Here was the plush press of her lips on his, feeling so much like a reverie he thought once again that he must be asleep. He would wake any moment and the fantasy would fall away into foam. Now. Now.

“Now, I don’t mean to intrude, but there is a train waiting. I’m afraid you must save the rest of the young man for his return trip.” They both snapped up at once to see the uniformed man at Jonathan’s back. He was eyeing them with a look that spoke of a career forever encumbered with similar scenes. The man peered at Jonathan over his spectacles. “You are boarding?”

“Yes, sir. Apologies.” But an apology not even fractionally meant. He turned back to Mina who now steamed from the neck up as she avoided the gawking of an older couple taking in the show. The wife gestured at the sight of them, muttering something in a tone of mingled mirth and query in her husband’s ear, to which the husband rolled his eyes. Jonathan spared them only a mote of attention. “Mina.” She looked to him. “I love you. I’ll be back soon.”

“I love you, Jonathan. I’ll be right here.”

He found his seat at the window and did not turn his head away from the glass. Not while the train idled. Not while it pulled away in its hiss and puff of turning wheels. Not while Mina stood there waving after him, her feet tugging her forward a few unconscious steps so that she might see his window longer while he craned his head to keep her in view. Only when the station itself was a speck in the distance did he turn back around. Off to the future to lay an invisible track for them both. To collect countries as keepsakes and bring them home on paper like pressed flowers.

Jonathan tried to imagine what he might cross on his travel to and from the castle that would be a worthwhile souvenir. Images of books and baubles were conjured as he traced the edges of his journal. So he went on musing until excitement burned out to exhaustion and the first doze of his trip dragged him down into sleep.

A dream came and went.

He was still on the train, still at his window, but the seat facing his was no longer empty. A face he knew was there. One harvested from the far end of his school days and the nascent career as a clerk. So he believed.

It was a familiar countenance in the way that the sight of a stranger always seen in the same place amounted to vague acquaintance. Known enough to nod at in passing. Jonathan had nodded at this one and been given a nod back in student years. He’d thought of introducing himself once or twice, only for the young man to flush and hurry off like a frightened stray. Jonathan had never quite understood it.

Now here was his anonymous acquaintance again, finally sedate in his seat and hidden in his newspaper. While he was not Jonathan’s senior by more than a year, he looked to be in a more professional state of dress. Pressed and tailored and relaxed in that way men can be when they know they have a wardrobe full of similarly fine ensembles waiting at home. But it was his choice of accessory that gave him away as being on a similar pilgrimage to Jonathan’s. The unoccupied portion of his seat was taken up by the paperwork of a sale, carefully weighted by a discarded hat. His companion spared it no attention, having his gaze pinned on the newspaper open in his hands. It blocked the view of him from the whiskers down. Jonathan was still wondering whether to announce himself when a voice came from behind the newsprint:

“My way goes through Munich. Yours as well?”

“Yes,” Jonathan said. “Though I fear there will be no real stop there. At least, the Count did not pencil a hotel stay in the route.”

“Hm,” his companion nodded. “I suppose he would not gamble it twice. Even if he did set it right the first go around.” The newspaper rustled and the young man’s eyes finally lifted above the print to find Jonathan’s. They were bottle glass-bright. “What all have you packed?”

“Necessities, mainly. Everything for the sale, some changes for the overnight stays and—,”

“And what haven’t you packed?”

“I…” His hand traveled again to his chest. “Mina saved me at the station. I forgot a notebook, but she had one ready. I should be fine.”

“No. You are still missing something. Rather, I expect you will be missing it quite soon.” There was a sigh behind the paper. “All that practice and you go and leave the damned thing under your bed.”

Jonathan straightened in his seat. His right hand clamped reflexively, as if palm and fingers were dreaming of a hardwood handle.

“I’m not going to the jungle.”

“There are worse things than animals to worry about. If you cannot cut them down, what will be left to you?” Another page turned. The bottle glass eyes slid to look out the window. Jonathan followed his gaze and saw that the world had gone black and white under a skull-faced moon. “But then, you might make do without the steel. You handled the worst of our schoolmates well enough back then without even raising your voice. Whatever you may lack as a full-blooded Englishman you make up for in softer stuff. Enough that one or two of the lads confessed over drinks that they wished you were a girl. I was not one of them. You gave me trouble enough as a boy.

“All that said, you have skills that will help. Appealing attributes. Ones I could have used myself.” The unblinking eyes slid back to Jonathan. It was a greyer stare now. Almost filmy. “I had nothing to sell. Neither in English property or my personal wares, so to speak. I could not even muster charm enough to be worth an extra hour’s chat.” Jonathan watched his companion’s hands crumple the paper in two fists. He saw for the first time that those hands were red. They left dry maroon stains across the gazette. “Who is waiting for you, Jonathan Harker? Who at home? Your Mina, old Hawkins, and who else? Any names come to mind?

“Of those friends, are there any who will know to worry when it goes wrong? Anyone to ask questions? To watch the calendar and the post and wonder how you are? Because I thought I did. I even knew the difference between friends and amiable acquaintances, unlike you. Fellows in and out of my firm. Even a girl who understood my needs and was willing to play her part. They all said they expected letters from me. Said they’d be on watch if I was not back within half a month. That was a year ago. And still they do not know where I am. Nor have they cared enough to look.

“But you would have, I think. If I had ever gotten over my cowardice. If I hadn’t wasted boyhood cringing, so afraid I would give myself away. If I had not made a ghost of myself rather than a friend. I was so proud of myself for not daring at the time—I fear I would have made a wretched scene when I first realized you and the pretty schoolmistress were serious. Instead I took my wine and my pain in silence. Told myself how wise I had been not to try. Ha.” Jonathan watched pallid lips peel open on a smile glazed pink with bleeding. Red rivulets trailed out between the young man’s teeth and into the trimmed beard. “Not that it would have mattered in the end. If we had been friends, if we had been more, if we had been anything at all, there wouldn’t have been much for you to find.”

Jonathan leaned forward. It took an effort. A growing stench was starting to waft from the opposite seat. The stink of copper and rot.

“Please, just tell me what this is. Tell me how to help. What’s happened?”

His companion’s grisly smile wilted. The bottle glass eyes ran like his mouth.

“What’s happened is you have climbed onto the same train I took. You will ride on plenty more. The same coaches too. Perhaps that will help. They never caught on to the truth of things when it was me. After all, he does have work to do, being what he is. People must have made it to and from that place before in official capacity. They must have thought it would be the same for imported goods. Hopefully they will know better now. But then, so will he. Soon all you will have to rely on is yourself. Use what you have. All that you have. Play the game as best you can. As long as you can.” Red tears and dribble flowed in a thickening cascade. “I could not last a week and so lost everything. Or nearly so. I am restless, true, but it could have been worse. Much worse.”

“I don’t understand,” Jonathan almost rasped. Fear choked him like a noose.

“I know. And I am very, very sorry to say that you will.” His companion sighed, releasing a crimson haze of spittle into the air. “Well. This is all I can manage as I am. I suppose I shall not need this anymore. Here.” The newspaper was shut and held out for Jonathan to take. “Somewhat out of date, but well worth the read.”

Jonathan spared barely a mote of attention for it. There was no headline or story that he could make out. Only a flash of what looked like the stanzas of a poem, though he couldn’t say for certain. He was too gripped by the sight of the young man below the neck. Seeing the fullness of it hooked something in Jonathan’s stomach and drew it up to the very edge of his teeth. He wasn’t sure if it was his breakfast or a scream.

That was when the hand fell on his shoulder.

Cold. Just as cold as the lips now pressed at the side of his neck.

Whatever sound he might have made was cut off as something sharp drove into his throat and the train went as dark as the world beyond it.

“Sir?” Jonathan fell against his seat as if thrown. The uniformed man started back himself, taking his hand away from Jonathan’s shoulder as he did. “We’re coming to the station soon. Can’t have you sleeping through your stop.”

“No. No, of course. Thank you. Sorry.” The man glanced at Jonathan’s lap with a look possessed by every father who has ever known better than his progeny.

“You could pick lighter reading to nod off on. You’re only setting yourself up for sour dreaming if that’s what you skim beforehand.” He didn’t loiter long enough to explain what he meant. Jonathan looked down.

He had picked a gazette to stuff into his things before he and Mina reached the platform. He’d had an idea that he was reserving his books for the far end of his travel and so would make do with some final updates from his native soil. At some point he had turned all the way to the obituaries. His hand rested on one describing the tragic loss of a young man at sea. A sailor fallen overboard in a storm, presumed dead.

They could be wrong, Jonathan thought with sudden desperation. Perhaps he lived. He made it safely to an island or some distant beach. They could find him alive and well. Couldn’t they?

The newspaper was shut, folded over twice, and tucked back in his luggage. Jonathan did not touch it again until he left the final station that spat him out by the shore, feeding it to the first wastebin he saw. He almost laughed to himself when it came time to board the ship. It would be May by the time he cracked open the journal and wrote anything of interest.

“I shall do better on the return trip,” he promised the naked pages. “I’ll record a view of the sunrise on the water, I swear.” And he meant it. But for this first voyage across the water, Jonathan stayed shut in his room. If he dreamt of a black tide coming up to swallow him, he was happy to wake without recalling it.

#this is a whopper #hope you have snacks #Harker #my writing #horror #dracula #re: dracula #dracula daily #jonathan harker #mina murray #r.m. renfield #peter hawkins #lucy westenra #dracula's guest #c.r. kane

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ofmdrecaps · 7 months ago

Text

09/20/2024 Daily OFMD Recap

TLDR; Call To Action: David Jenkins; Samba Schutte; Con O'Neill; Hugo Pierre Martin; How To Help; Other Cast & Crew Sightings: Rhys Darby; Rosie Carnahan Darby; Taika Waititi; Samba Schutte; Leslie Jones; Guz Khan; Damien Gerard; Kristian Nairn; Hugo Pierre Martin;

Well folks. It sure is wonderful to be honking loudly with you again! (Clown or Goose, however you prefer to consider it!). This morning, David Jenkins started us all off with a very specific tweet that set off a chain reaction!

= David Jenkins =

It APPEARS that David is telling us, the fans, that OFMD is "available", and that Netflix is the streaming service to woo. Now, does that mean it's just being bought and streamed? Or perhaps being picked up by a Season 3? There has been some discussion that Netflix sometimes likes to stream a cancelled show before they greenlight another season-- and well, who knows, maybe that's what OFMD is in line for!

Source: David Jenkins' Instagram

= Samba Schutte =

Then a little later in the day... Samba started us up with a new #, #supnetflix!

Source: Samba's Instagram

= Con O'Neill =

Con joined in on the sharing!

Source: Con's Instagram Stories

= Hugo Pierre Martin =

Our "one-line" friend, Hugo Pierre Martin is back at it! He's supporting OFMD in every way he can!

Source: Hugo's Twitter / 2

The fans took David and the Crew's call to action by starting up a tweet storm! Our friends over at @adoptourcrew also kept the momentum going by putting up prompts!

Source: Adopt Our Crew Twitter

Some of our crewmates reminded us, and Netflix, we had the numbers :)

Source: Florence aka single_cat_mom on Twitter!

As of the time this post was put together, the trends got up to the following! Thank you to APurplePatch on Twitter for captureing them!

Source: APurplePatch Twitter

And a little schadenfreude for today's festivities! Thank you Ashley!

Source: Ashley aka Seven_Sugars on Twitter

Well there we are-- great job today crew! Sure is feeling good in the fandom today! If we can, let's keep the momentum up through tomorrow! Are you excited about the possibility of an s3? Well, feel free to join in the manifestations from our friend @xray-vex!

Source: Xray_Vex Twitter

== How To Help ==

I can't believe I'm saying this again-- but hey! Wanna help out with the renewal (or at least selling OFMD) effort? Please consider some of the following!

Sign the Petition if you haven't already! (Change.org DOES clear out non-confirmed via email signatures every once in a while, so be sure to check your email.)

Request Our Flag Means Death on the Netflix form!

If you're interacting with social media, use these hashtags: #OurFlagMeansDeath #supnetflix #AdoptOurCrew #SaveOFMD

== Other Cast & Crew Sightings ==

= Rhys Darby =

New Bill Napier Weather Update from Rhys today on his Substack! There was even a shout out to some of our crewmembers you might recognize! Give it a listen!

Source: Rhys' Substack

= Rosie =

More Kitten Content from the Darby Household! (why yes, I will use my one movie allowed per tumblr post to add kitten content, I regret nothing).

Source: Rosie Carnahan Darby's Instagram

= Taika Waititi =

Taika's back to his "influencer" phase again!

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Taika Waititi (@taikawaititi)

instagram

Source: Taika's Instagram

= Damien Gerard =

Damien's finally getting to get some relief! Congrats sir!

Source: Damien's Instagram

= Kristian Nairn =

Kristian catching up with one of his old co-stars, Issac Wright!

Source: Kristian Nairn Instagram

= Samba Schutte =

I realized I shared Samba's pics last time, but didn't say much about the new campaign! Samba's new Shop Stands campaign is benefiting the LA Regional Food Bank! First up, you can get a hoodie version of the Crew For Life T-Shirt! - Crew For Life Hoodie

Next up-- Samba is back with another cooking class! This time it's Death By Cheese! Death By Cheese Class

EVENT DATE: NOVEMBER 9 EVENT TIME: 10AM PT/1PM ET EVENT LOCATION: ONLINE

Source: Shop Stands

= Guz Khan =

New season of Man From Mobeen! Not sure if there's a date yet...but looks like Guz is sharing some pics!

Source: Guz Khan's Instagram

= Leslie Jones =

Leslie was on the Jennifer Hudson Show a couple days back!

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by The Jennifer Hudson Show (@jenniferhudsonshow)

instagram

Source: Jennifer Hudson's Instagram

= Hugo Pierre Martin =

In case you haven't heard, Hugo is doing a Spotify Audio Series! Wanna check it out? Visit: Spotify

Source: Hugo's Twitter

== Articles ==

Source: Adopt Our Crew Twitter

== Love Notes ==

Alright, lovelies. I have so many things to say and yet no stamina to do so. I'll try to pick up tomorrow-- I just wanted to send this your way, I hope you find the ones who make you feel like you're basking in warmth and love, like the sun.

Source: StayCloseToYourself_ Instagram

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adickaboutspoons · 8 months ago

Text

Happy sexual Sunday. In honor of Rhys announcing his upcoming substack by pointing at hand-written bulletpoints on a chalkboard with a screwdriver, I want to share the OnlyFans Stede idea that has been in my plot bunny pen for ages, but prolly isn't going to go anywhere. Stede's OF account was set up for him by Lucius, and is completely neutral content of him demonstrating basic auto maintenance and, like, how to tie a fishing lure, and a bunch of other Dad things, and he's completely oblivious to how unintentionally suggestive he's being. Like, he's filming himself working in the garden when it's super hot out, makes a "it's not the heat, it's the humidity" dad joke, strips off his shirt and uses it to mop his brow. He's on his hands and knees, pulling up weeds, and when he manages to pull up a particularly stubborn one, roots and all, kind-of-whispery/grunting-to-himself, "Aww, yeah. That's what you want, baby." Then he sits back and takes a deep drink from his water bottle, and accidentally holds it near his crotch while encouraging his watchers to stay hydrated. Ed is one of his subscribers and finds the whole thing just brain-meltingly hot. Eventually, they accidentally meet IRL, and Ed is trying to be SO COOL and not let it be known that he knows this guy and where from. And then they keep running into one another (by total coincidence - Ed hasn't become a convert to going to the farmer's market instead of just picking shit up from the grocery store on the off (likely) chance of running into Stede while he's there. Not at ALL.), and start becoming friendly. It's during one of these meetings Ed accidentally slips that he's a subscriber. He's mortified. For a moment he thinks Stede is going to get all weirded out. But Stede is just like "Oh! You like the feed? Why didn't you say so?! Always glad to meet my Only Fan!" (Stede has a v. healthy subscribership, but he thinks making the Only Fan joke is Hilarious) Stede asks for his username, and when he tells him, Stede is all "Oh! I know YOU! I can't tell you how much your feedback means to me. Always leaves me feeling all glowy for days!" Ed is all blushy and stammery and, "Uh... yeah, man. Me too." He offers Ed a hug, and Ed is internally combusting. Stede is all "If you've got any ideas for the feed, I'm always open to suggestions. Is there anything you'd like to see me doing?" There are MANY things Ed would like to see him doing. None of which are appropriate to give voice to in a crowded open-air market. Eventually eventually, after many instances where Ed is going crazy trying to figure out if it's a date or just a hang, there would be a v. thorough railing wherein Stede whispers all the tender, affirmational things Ed could ever have wished to hear. So! here's the only bit of it I've actually bothered to write:

The man on the screen smeared a little grease around the tight little hole, then inserted the cylinder into the gap in one smooth, gratifying motion. "There we are," he said, his voice a low, self-satisfied hum, "A nice, tight fit. And doesn't it feel good to do it yourself?"

Ed's breathing picked up pace a little.

"And that's how you replace a spark plug. Nothing shocking about it." He smiled a charming, little shit-eating grin and winked at the camera.

Ed's breath caught in his throat.

"So that's it for this one! Thanks, as always to my subscribers, and a special tip of the hat to this week's new friends," he looked away from the camera and put on a pair of gold wire-rimmed glasses. Ed swooned a little as he read out the names from an actual printed page.

At the end of it, he took off the glasses and looked directly into the camera again, his eyes soft and his smile genuine and kind. "Thank you for sharing this time with me. Lots of love!"

There was nothing explicitly sexual about the CapriSun_Erotica OnlyFans page. In fact, the most shocking thing about it was how roundly wholesome the content was. Just a man and his phone camera and a world of practical advice and dad jokes. An intensely hot man in the tiniest shorts or tightest jeans Ed had ever seen, who seemed allergic to doing up the top three buttons on his shirts, and that radiated so much DILF energy Ed was a little astonished the videos didn't just melt his phone screen. It was the most intensely arousing thing Ed had ever seen.

He eased himself out of his boxers and hit the replay button.

When he had cleaned himself up, he tapped out a quick reply. "Hey DaddyStede, great vid as usual. Really got my motor running. 😘"

#ofmd sesu #ofmd #our flag means death #crew4life #permanent ink

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togglesbloggle · 18 days ago

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The worst part of losing Tumblr, of course, will be the many broken connections with all of you guys. 'Tumblr mutual' is a peculiar and lovely kind of friendship that can't be replicated elsewhere, and the quality of audience I've found here has been really excellent in a way that I don't expect to find again.

But I've always been a creature of fragmented identities, and so the second worst part of losing Tumblr will be the fact that the "Toggle"-sona might not last very long without it.

It's one of those strange advantages that comes from hanging out on one of the last great pseudonymous sites on the internet, you know? Being Toggle means something pretty specific for me- nothing unfamiliar if you've been following me for a while. It's structured as a syncretic mix of LessWrong-isms and empirical sciences, with connective tissues of epistemology and active curiosity. Toggle turns out to be a headspace that I deeply enjoy, and developing it has allowed me to move through the world in unique and special ways.

But it's an identity that hasn't grown as energetically as other parts of my life, at least not in the years since I left grad school. I don't meet new people through this face as often any more, or extend my social graph strongly in this direction, even though it's been an exciting and dramatic period in my life otherwise. And so Toggle is going to heal more slowly when injured, and take longer to recover from dramatic shocks.

Tumblr isn't the only place where I can express myself under this identity (it's got its own discord account and email address, among other things), but the long-form writing style is disproportionately important. "Writing is thinking" and all that; the particular Toggle-way of seeing the world requires space to work out and polish ideas. Without this jumble of essays and longposting, it starts to feel like there's a vital organ or two missing, and it's an open question whether Toggle has the vitality in it to recover from that.

It's theoretically possible to switch my writing over to Substack or something, though I'm fairly doubtful that this kind of writing could survive as a blog as opposed to a micro-blog, if only because this really is more of a sketchbook than a mature product as such. And if I stumble in to the right job, one in either physical sciences or in rationalist/EA spaces, then it would probably kick the identity back in to high gear. Toggle isn't entirely doomed, but it probably needs a stroke of good luck, a change in circumstance to align my incentives behind it, or both.

In the meantime, I'm anticipating Tumblr's closure by thinking about ways to be a little more proactive about porting the best parts of Toggle in to other parts of my life- upwards to the light of wallet names and face-to-face networks, and outwards to other constructed identities and other diasporic online communities. Even so, it's going to be a terrible loss.

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stagefoureddiediaz · 6 months ago

Note

the lack of physical intimacy of any kind between buck and tommy is certainly a choice let me tell you....

Hey Nonnie

Choices were made and I find them fascinating!

It would’ve been so easy to show intimacy in simple ways that would’ve been sweet and lovely and shown the relationship being in a good place - and I don’t even mean full on kissing - gentle caresses can do so much work in terms of showing intimacy or even a kiss to the forehead etc if it’s done well - the kind of gestures and physicality that show longevity and comfort and love! Hell the hand squeeze buck gave tommy in the cafe scene in you don’t know me is the perfect example - intimate and sweet and tender - and hopeful - without needing to kiss etc!

The thing I enjoyed most about the fact buck and tommy have gone back to covid social distancing rules is that it says so much more about the reality of their relationship - which we’ve been saying from the get go - that it’s all about sex - that there is no intimacy between them because they still - 6months ish later - don’t know one another beyond surface level because there isn’t anything to the relationship beyond awkward sexual innuendo and them having sex.

So to have them not be able to connect on a sexual level because of physical limitations and issues getting in the way (because shoulder injury first and Tommys hang ups about the boils later) they then had to try to connect on a non sexual level - and there was nothing there!

That was all so very intentional from a direction and script point of view - it gives so much away. that tommy clearly hasn’t, up to this point, seen or experienced wiki buck doing substack deep dives or dealt with a buck who spirals out when confronted with something like being cursed is really telling - because by all accounts they’re the kind of things you’d be seeing a bit of by this point.

We’re supposed to pick up on the fact they aren’t intimate in any way on a non physical level and I am excited to see how they make use of all of the things they’ve been showing and telling us as we hit the hurdle!

#kym answers things #nonnie asks #the relationship is as stiff as tommy lying on the couch and as dead as billy boils #911 spoilers #evan buckley #911 abc #anti tommy kinard #anti bucktommy

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goodluckclove · 10 months ago

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Stop Calling Yourself an Aspiring Author: A Proposition

So this post is dedicated to @dreambigdreamz, who asked me a question about when you can stop calling yourself an aspiring author. I had to wait until I could go to sleep to properly answer, because this is going to be a long one, probably. I'm actually doing this before I get to work for the day, because if I could get one goddamned person to stop labeling themselves like this I will feel success for at least three days.

It's a question for new writers - the difference between a writer and an author. If you Google the difference it appears there are two camps:

Writer and author are synonyms

You are only an author if you publish your work/write as a career

This is odd to me already. It's odd and it's immediately gatekeep-y, and it's so fucking surreal that ours is the only artistic field that has this strange distinction. For most other outlets there's still a separation between hobbyist and professional, but that's considered optional as far as I've seen.

Someone who paints or does digital art isn't likely to call themselves a hobbyist artist, even if they aren't doing it as their main source of income. They're just an artist.

If someone practices the piano but isn't actively in a performing band or symphony, they probably don't call themselves an aspiring pianist. They're already doing it. They're a pianist.

I briefly considered cook versus chef, but in that context cook doesn't necessarily mean amateur. There are line cooks and prep cooks and fry cooks and sauté cooks who work professionally. I have the qualifications of a prep or line cook, but I'm currently only cooking meals at home. So does that mean I'm an aspiring cook? That's weird. That doesn't sound right.

So by this point it should be clear that I find it deeply reductive to say that you can only call yourself an author if you've professionally published a work of writing. Maybe that was the case, like, a hundred years ago? Even then, though, one of the definitions of author is a verb describing the act of writing something. You could author a scientific paper. You could author a poem.

It's 2002. The scope of what it means to publish is infinitely vaster than it was in the days of Virginia Woolf or Ernest Hemingway. You could traditionally publish your novel - that's still an option. But you could also indie-publish. Or self-publish. Or produce your own zines or chapbooks and distribute them online. Or send our newsletters on platforms like Substack. Or serialize through websites like Wattpad, Tapas, Itch.io, Patreon, AO3, or even tumblr.

I never called myself an author, but my reasons have nothing to do with whether or not I've been published. I prefer writer, as it has a more versatile feel that tracks whether I'm working on a novel or a poem or a play. But that's beside the point.

Personally, I'm in the first camp. Writer and author are essentially synonymous, only in my eyes an author is someone who writes fiction or nonfiction prose. That's it. Have you done that? Cool. Good job no longer being "aspiring".

If you have the words aspiring author in your life somewhere, there's a good chance you're actively gatekeeping yourself from feeling good enough to do your own thing. Why not replace it with something like the following?

future bestseller

soon-to-be published

new author/writer

growing author/writer

developing author/writer

practicing author/writer

author/writer in training

just author/writer

If someone does the whole "you're a writer? what have you published?" welcome to the conversation that all writers have to tolerate at some point. People are dumb. People typically don't know our industry and how it functions, and that's fine. Just smile and nod and shrug your way out of the conversation.

Yes, there's infighting within writers who should very much be spending less time arguing who gets to wear the nametag and who doesn't. Those people are lame dipshits who should shut the fuck up and get back to writing. If you have a passion for writing, be it fanfic or scripts or short stories or novels, you are my peer and colleague. I might not like the structure or content of your writing - which is fine, by the way - but I would never even say that you aren't a writer holy shit.

I don't care if you use every genre and trope that I find trite and excessive. If you genuinely care about the stories you tell and you still present yourself as an aspiring author, you have a duty to take yourself more seriously than that.

You are a writer. You are an author. This should not be a question.

We need to move past this and start asking ourselves the real questions that come after you answer "Am I an author". Am I a safe author? Am I an advocate and an ally? Am I a supportive member of the community? Am I still learning? Am I a capable author? Am I adaptable? Am I resourceful? Am I determined?

I'm running out of steam here. I need the writers here, especially the younger writers, to move past this stage of their creative careers as quickly as fucking possible. I was there too. I get it. And I'm telling you it's time to soak the label of aspiring so as to loosen the adhesive, gently peel it off, and throw it in the trash forever. Don't even keep it for sentimental reasons to look back on later.

Toss it. Burn it. Eat it. It is not helping you.

Okay that's all. You should close this now and write three hundred words of whatever the fuck you want. I love you.

#aspiring author #aspiring writer #writeblr #creative writing #writing community #writers on tumblr #authors of tumblr #on writing #writing inspo #writing inspiration #writing resources

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dolphin-diaries · 20 days ago

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A Conversation With Lucy Kartikasari

An interview with a fellow detrans woman and activist about her experience. Originally posted on the Dolphin Diaries substack.

Dolphin Diaries: Would you introduce yourself and describe how you identify?

Lucy Kartikasari: Hi! My name is Lucy Kartikasari. I’m twenty-eight years old, I live in the Netherlands and I would label myself as a queer, bisexual detrans woman. Aside from my normal day job, I’m an online activist for LGBTQ rights with a focus on community-building between trans and detrans people. I feel like that is very sorely needed in today’s political climate.

So, when people think of detrans people, they usually think about the medical aspects of transition first and foremost. You were a teenager when you started transitioning, and you went through the Dutch transition procedure, is that correct?

Right, that is correct. I was twelve when I started my social transition and sixteen when I started my medical transition.

What has that experience been like?

My experience of it as a teen was marked by long waiting lists—which are still part of trans healthcare in the Netherlands today. After I came out to my parents, we went to our GP, and then I spent about three and a half years on a waitlist before I could even start the diagnostic portion of the transition process. It’s all been quite gatekeep-y.

But at the same time, I don’t think the psychologists involved really understood transition and what might motivate someone like me to do it. For me specifically, the root of my transition was the idea that I’d be a failure as a woman. I couldn’t be that beautiful, thin, hairless doll. So I remember the doctors asking me, have I considered if I could just be a masculine woman? And, no. I don’t think this way anymore, obviously, but back then, for me being a masculine woman also meant being a failure. Anything less than picture-perfect cisheteronormativity was not good enough. So I felt like, I may as well be a man. And I don’t think they understand what that kind of trauma looks like.

So, based on the kinds of questions they were asking you, what do you think they were trying to screen you for?

I think, besides asking if I was just a masculine woman, they were trying to screen for things like sexual trauma. But mostly it was, like, what makes you not want to be a woman? And I would say, well, it’s my body parts. I had a lot of negative thoughts about having extra fat on my body—you know, growing up in a half-Asian household, fatphobia is very common. Only thin women can be successful, and if you’re not under fifty kilos, you’re not thin enough. And so I had a lot of negative feelings about that and my breasts in particular. Just very disinterested in having them, very unhappy with them. And I didn’t really want to be a woman, so I was like, well if I want to live as a man, I should have a flat chest, a penis, and so on. And so, because I was so dissatisfied with my body and with my breasts especially, that assured them it was really gender dysphoria. I don’t think they really understood my cultural context, either.

Would you say it was like, the doctors were aware that women might have bodily insecurities, but surely, if you were really a woman, you wouldn’t hate it that badly?

Exactly. And while I was on the waitlist, I was in therapy, but I was never in therapy with someone who specialised in gender dysphoria. They just looked at me and went, well, let’s wait four years and see if the child still wants to transition. So what happened was, I spent all that time presenting as a boy, at the time that my identity was really crystalising, between the ages of twelve and fifteen. So by the time it came to doing the diagnostics, I was already like, yeah I’m a boy, there’s nothing else to it. I’m a dude.

So it sounds like, since you had to wait so long, you weren’t really coming to a psychologist to help you with figuring out your transness? You just came there specifically to transition?

Yeah. When I first came out, it was to my dad, and I wasn’t sure then. I just said, I think I’m a boy. What would’ve been helpful for me at the time was if someone would’ve sat down with me and helped me untangle my feelings, why I was so insecure about the idea of growing up as a woman, why the trappings of a female body were so traumatising to me. Why I had so many of these weird issues of, like, my bones being too big, my wrists not being small enough. Because I was just like: I don’t want to fail, I don’t want to be bad at this; I may as well do something I’ll be good at.

So that time you spent living as a boy while not being able to access medical transition—how did that affect you?

I felt like I was a victim of my own biology. I felt like, if I was on testosterone, at least some of this fat would be muscle. I know it’s a lot of fatphobia—don’t get me wrong, I’m a gym girl now, I know you don’t have to be on T for that. But I’m still working very hard to deconstruct all these things. Back then, I looked at my unclothed body with revulsion, and I felt like a masculine body would be so much better than whatever I had going on. Going through life as a boy while simultaneously being so disgusted with myself—it was just so much easier to exist in places where I didn’t have to be physically present, like online. I learned to detach my personality from my physicality, to disassociate.

Has that affected your experience with detransition?

Well, I’m twenty-eight now. My adolescence was a long time ago at this point, so it can be hard to reconnect with the way I used to feel back then. But that ability to disconnect from my body has actually made it easier to cope with my bodily insecurities now, too. Because it’s like, even if I feel horrible, even if I were to devolve into some sort of horrific creature physically, I know I’d still be me in my mind, no matter what.

And have you needed to access gender-affirming care as a detrans woman?

Yeah, I’ve had a total hysterectomy, so I’m reliant on oestrogen HRT for the rest of my life. I have had laser hair removal on my face, since the growth there was bothering me quite a lot. And I’ve been planning to undergo breast reconstruction and a treatment for the scarring on my chest.

In terms of access to gender-affirming healthcare for detransition as an adult, what’s been your experience?

As an adult, I found that there really are no protocols in place for detransition—like, they just don’t think about it at all. Some of my interactions with healthcare professionals have been quite callous. For example, when I first approached my doctor about switching my hormones, one of the first things he said to me was, You know it’s actually really rare for people to do this. And I was kind of like, well of course it’s rare. But how is that supposed to help me now?

One of the other things I had to do is wait. I took my last dose of testosterone in September 2022, and I only got to start oestrogen in December 2022.

So that’s like, months with low sex hormones across the board?

Yeah, it crashed pretty quickly. October, I wasn’t feeling great; November, menopausal symptoms were starting to kick in. It was starting to affect my day job. Thank goodness, the company doctor was an older woman, so I just explained to her my detransition and said, look, I don’t have hormones in my body right now. And she understood.

So, for November and January, I was actually experiencing menopausal symptoms for the second time in my life. Because I’ve also been on hormone blockers and nothing else when I was sixteen. There’s some comedy there, menopause at sixteen and then again at twenty-six. Now I look back at it and laugh, but at the time it was obviously horrific.

As for the social aspect of detransitioning, I didn’t really want to tell people about it because I was essentially stealth in a lot of places, especially my professional life. So people in the workplace would see me and interpret me as a trans woman all of a sudden. To be fair, I was working in data engineering, so I think everyone was just looking at me and being like, yep, makes sense.

This dovetails into my next question: what has it been like, outside of online and queer spaces, to live as a detrans woman?

It’s been kind of a mixed bag. I think my greatest concern, or fear, or whatever you want to call it, has been triggering people’s transmisogyny, because they assume I’m a trans woman. I’ve had instances where I, like, went out partying and approached a guy, and then that guy found my Instagram. He saw my they/she/he pronouns, heard my voice. And then he was just like, You used to be a man. And we’re in the middle of a dance floor, I’m not giving him my entire gender history. At that particular club, I was with my sister and knew the security, so I knew I’d be safe if something went down, but it was scary. Dating in general is strange, intensely uncomfortable and scary. I just have to throw my entire story out there, because otherwise it’s like, what’s up with these chest scars? And you know, with single-sex spaces, I go to the changing rooms in the gym with my sister, because I’m scared that, if I speak a word, there will be a problem. Legally I’m still male and I have a traditionally masculine name, so I run into issues because of that, too.

When it comes to my friends and family, however, they’ve been really good. I’ve been so lucky. And I think it’s also because I’ve been so open about my transition and everything that went into it, that people were like, well, Lucy, we love you no matter what. It’s all good; if you want to detransition, that’s fine; if you want to retransition later, that’s also fine. There’s only one exception to that, and it’s my mum. She struggled a lot with my transition in the beginning, so it was quite hard to tell her. Even to this day, I think she still has issues with the fact I want to be a mother, in part because it will cost me a lot of money. So I waited until, like, four months on E to tell her, surprise, I’m your daughter again.

I also worry about certain expectations being put on me again, like the way I need to look, act, sound. But I feel like that’s kind of just being a woman in society, unfortunately.

Have you ever worried about coming out as detrans and unintentionally confirming people’s worst suspicions about trans people?

I find that the one way I combat this is, just by openly stating that this is my experience—I really emphasise that. If you want to take my story and run with it, I can’t really stop that. But I try to be really emphatic of my support for trans people, of my trans friends, even if it’s a little silly. Like, I still do the testosterone shots for my best friend, who’s a trans guy; I’m friends with trans girls; I’m still very much in community with trans people. When I say this so often, it might come across to other queer people as performative—but that’s the point, I need to do this performance when I talk to cis people who really don’t get it. For whom I’m just a confirmation of their worst instincts.

So what has being detrans been like for you in queer circles?

In my local communities in the Netherlands, because I’ve been involved with activism, it’s really fine as I’ve made a name for myself in being very pro-trans rights. Overall, it’s been good.

Were you involved in activism before you detransitioned, also?

I only really got involved in activism as a detrans person. Before that, I felt like there were so many people much more eloquent than me, people who already have huge followings—what could I possibly add to the conversation? But then, about six months after detransitioning, I found a tweet by Oli London [about detransition], and that was a catalyst. I thought, I need to do something about this. I figured that I could add way more to the conversation about being detrans and in community with trans people than anything else.

What would you say are trans people’s attitudes about detransition and detrans people?

I think it really depends on the age. I feel like, the younger you go, the more vitriolic the hatred towards detrans people. Young people and especially teenagers are very prone to black-and-white thinking. I think—and this is going to be controversial—that the trans kids who are incredibly vitriolic towards detrans people are the ones who are most likely to detransition later down the line, because they do not give any room for their doubts and might be reacting this way because they’re hiding something away. But generally, I’d say the older you get, the more someone has been in community with other trans and queer people, the more likely they are to look at your experience in a nuanced way. At least that’s what I observe with my followers. The only exception is—and I know this comes from a place of pain—some trans women who really hate detrans women, because they see it as squandering the gift of natural-born femininity. Like, you had this, I want it and I can’t have it—and you just threw it away.

When you describe your experience to trans people, do they recognise it as a detrans experience? Or is it usually the first time they hear something like that in regards to detransition?

I think it’s usually new to them in that context. I think the only detransition content they’ve encountered before was, let’s face it, Christofascist white nationalist content. Let’s just call a spade a spade. So the fact they’re hearing someone empathetic to trans people, who wants them to have adequate healthcare, job opportunities, everything—that’s new. They’re very quick to rip into certain well-known right-wing detransitioners, but when they respond to me with hate because I’m detrans and I just shrug it off, that kind of defangs it.

On a broader scale, would you say that detransitioning impacted the way you think about gender and sex?

Being a detrans woman just made me realise—it’s all the same thing. It’s always sexism, misogyny; it’s always hatred of the feminine, the unmet expectations of the feminine, failing to be a woman. I don’t understand how people like Chloe Cole and Prisha and whoever else can be like this, because you know they’ll treat you just the same as a trans woman. You’ll get lumped in when the chips are down. There’s so much more to gain in accepting gender fluidity, in community.

What would you say are the biggest challenges to detrans people right now?

I think it’s the fact that the organisations that have been founded supposedly to help us always have ulterior motives. For instance, I have a Brazilian detrans friend, and she complains to me it’s all very Jesus-saved-us there. I’m Australian, so I need to get all paperwork changes through the Australian government, and the only organisation that cares about detransition there is the LGB Alliance. Then you look at the US, and it’s Genspect. These organisations are usually Christofascist. So yeah, there’s never anything that offers a structured way of helping detrans people without that agenda. That would sort out your documents and your healthcare.

So what I’m surmising is, when detrans people need help with legal gender marker change or gender-affirming healthcare access, the only option they see available to them are those right-wing organisations?

Right. We need to take that power away from them.

I very much agree. Lastly, in your opinion, do detrans issues tie in with any broader issues right now?

I think a lot of the things relevant to detrans women tie in with general women’s issues. For instance, speaking as a detrans woman that has been sterilised, there’s reproductive healthcare. The Right has this chokehold on conversations of fertility; they talk about how you’ll never breastfeed, never have babies if you take T for too long, and so on. It’s about reproductive rights and control over everyone who has the capacity to bear children. And of course, there’s trans rights and the encroachment of transphobia. The Right wants to construct a very specific view of gender, of women, and in part they use detrans women to do that.

Lucy Kartikasari can be found over on TikTok, Twitter, Instagram, and Threads. She creates content about her transition and detransition as well as trans and detrans solidarity. Find her other links here.

#transfeminism #material feminism #detrans #detransition #feminism #sex is a social construct #interview

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kk-iki · 5 days ago

Text

— pouring my heart through a sieve.

pt. iii : COMMITMENT.

synopsis: you and silena go on. . .what you're not sure can be considered a date. she's radiant through it all, as she always is, but it doesn't take long for you to wonder how you could have let her blind you for so long.

word count: 5.0k

tags: fem!simon riley x fem!reader, sfw, simon is called 'silena' in this fic, even more misunderstandings, even more bad habits, mentions of periods, descriptions of blood, religious imagery, more of that seemingly one-sided all-consuming crush (on si's part, and definitely on your part too), implied hookup but there's nothing explicit, suggestive undertones in the second half, heavy-ish angst, betrayal, no comfort ending but this isn't really the ending, i promise.

notes: this part kind of hurt me to write, i won't lie. getting the slow, dawning sense that you've been betrayed as it's happening is one of the most sickening feelings in the world. i hope i did it justice here; i drew a lot of the physical sensations from my own experiences.

all my love to @hcneymooners for being such a beautiful writer that reading her substack essays inspired me to finish this chapter, and to @cagegutz for being the main source of inspiration for silena and reader's story. my blessings are going out to you both, and you'll feel it if you close your eyes.

reblogs are always appreciated. please feel free to leave your feedback anywhere where i can see it, from the comments to the tags to my inbox. my messages are always open too. i love to hear from you all and i love to know that my writing speaks to you, but mostly i just love you.

you can’t remember the last time you dreamed.

it’s a bit strange to think about, you muse briefly, but it’s true. your mother would always comment that you used to be such a happy child, and now you’re wasting your best years hiding away in an apartment building full of eclectics, draining yourself of whatever remains of your youth. nowadays, it feels like the days go by so blandly—none of the wonder of your formative years to be found. the snow falls the same, but it never kisses the tip of your nose quite right anymore.

your last dream had been the day after you moved out. something about flying, you think. it’s wholly unoriginal and for that you sometimes curse your unconscious mind for being unable to light up with creativity the way she did before. but you remember how you felt before you woke up—stomach plummeting, insides thick and sweetened like jam. leaping, boundless, a stag in the snow.

you’ve lived alone for the past few years, but you’d never felt quite so free.

and now you wake up in your mid-twenties, in a bed that’s become familiar to you after four months, and you remember nothing.

you sit up and stretch the last remaining vestiges of sleep from your heavy limbs, turning on the lily-shaped nightstand lamp at your side and fumbling for the book that sits beneath it. it was a recommendation, you recall, from silena.

silena. you suddenly feel a bit ridiculous as you thumb through the last half of the chapter you’re on, because the thought of her name wandering through your mind sends something breezy and sharp tickling up your spine, the riff of a pianist against the curve of your back. you try not to make a habit of going on your phone immediately after you wake up, but something tugs at you to pick it up and call her anyway.

she’d given you her number the morning after that first party of mactavish’s. it had been clean, almost transactional in how she’d pressed the numbers into your phone, and you would have likened it to another business venture had she not sat you at her table and made you toast with blackcurrant jam before you left. neither of you had said much—somehow, you’d felt that words might ruin the moment. you’d felt a bit silly, sitting there and eating while she watched you with her chin propped up in her palm, but it had been the most intimate meal you’d had in a long time.

you unlock your phone and click ‘call’ on her contact card. si, you’d written, with a little heart at the end of it. you hope she doesn’t mind.

she picks up before the second ring. “morning.”

“hi,” you say, a little breathless. you’re not sure what to do now—you hadn’t exactly thought this through. clumsily, you continue. “sorry to call so suddenly. i just…was wondering how you were doing.”

silena’s quiet for a moment, and then she laughs, slow and sweet. it makes something grate in your chest, like keys on a car window.

“y’ saw me last night,” she reminds you.

“yeah, but i still wanna know how you’re doing.”

“why?”

you feel it then; that hot flare of affection that bounces through your body when she engages you like this. you can’t stop a small, indignant laugh from bubbling up as you sit up a little straighter. “i’m just curious!”

“can’t say no to that, i s’pose. god, the things i do for you,” she obliges half-exasperatedly, and you get the strange feeling that she sees you for your age in this moment.

you’ve seen it before—the way she jokes that you should respect your elders despite the fact she’s only just shy of eight years older than you, the divide between what you see on your social media feed and what she sees on hers, the way she enjoys acting as though you’re so much younger that her banter with you is more like indulging a precocious child’s whims. it’s not like it bothers you, but she makes it so obvious that sometimes you wonder if it’s on purpose.

“so…” you trail off, fingers rubbing the edge of a page, “how are you doing?”

“better now,” she replies, “thanks t’ you.”

“stop,” you mumble, hoping that the exaggeratedness of your faux-irritation is enough to hide the way a shy, giddy smile blooms to life on your face. judging by the soft chuff of laughter on the other end, your efforts are fruitless.

“what about you?”

you blink. “me?”

“yeah. what’re you doing right now?” she asks, the grainy phone speaker doing nothing to curb the shivers that glitter up your spine.

you swallow thickly before you respond, voice so small you could almost sound meek. “reading.”

“yeah?”

god. “yeah.”

it’s seamless, the way she coaxes you open and gets you to talk—your words linger on the book for all of two minutes before you’re setting it aside and settling more comfortably into bed, chattering away about everything and nothing. at one point, you’ve gotten out of bed entirely and have started wandering around your flat, feet bare against the hardwood as you talk without pause. you don’t realize how quickly the time slips away from you until you glance at your screen and nearly choke on the tea you’d gotten up to make for yourself.

“oh, shit,” you mumble. “si, i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to talk for so long, i swear. are you busy today? did you have anywhere you needed to be?”

silena laughs, and you feel something swoop in your stomach. “nah, nothin’s goin’ on today—jus’ talking t’ you. but if you’re busy…”

you flush despite yourself, your pacing picking up in speed. “well, i have the day off today ‘cause it’s a sunday, and so i thought i might go get something to eat. actually—”

you hurry to your kitchen table, mug in hand, setting it down and flipping through the mail on the surface. “miss price gave me these tickets to this show. said she’s not a fan of slow jazz, but she thought i might like ‘em.”

“do you?”

“yeah.” you’re not sure why admitting that to her feels like you’re handing her chunks of your flesh. “i don’t get to go often, though. i’m not— i don’t usually have the time.”

“well, y’ said you’re free t’day,” silena hums, and you can imagine her nodding along, that x-shaped scar over her jaw stretching and curling inwards with the movement. you vividly recall a daydream you’d had two weeks ago, in which you’d leaned over and kissed it.

“i am.”

“are y’ going?”

“um,” you respond, very smartly. “i’m not sure. i mean, there’s two of them, so—”

“i know. y’ said tickets,” silena says, “as in plural. so let me rephrase.”

you realize with a start what she’s playing at before she’s even said anything, and your body flushes with heat as you clutch the studded case of your phone a little tighter. she interjects before you can say anything about it, and you belatedly feel the tea in your stomach warm to a boil.

“are y’ going…” she trails off, deliberate and smug, “with anyone?”

you can’t help it, then—you laugh, hard enough to feel embarrassed about it. residual giggling bubbles from your throat as you right yourself, sitting down at the table with your cheek slumped against your knitted sleeve.

“no, si, i haven’t asked anyone to go with me yet,” you reply, cheeks pinked with the glow of laughter. you wonder how you must look—sound—to her; giggling like you’re nineteen and infatuated, walking through the world like you’re leaping across the surface of the moon. “but you’ve asked me a lot of questions already, so it’s my turn.”

“yeah?”

you feel half of your nerve spill out of you, leaving you rigid and trembling. “yeah.”

“go on, then.”

“would you—” you start, tongue darting out to wet your lips. you wonder why you’re always the one asking. “would you want to go to this show with me?”

silena’s quiet again—long enough to make your nerves return twofold, mangled from confidence to a shriveled trepidation. you clutch your phone tighter, until the bejeweled case digs into your flesh.

“si?”

“yeah,” she responds, and you faintly register that she sounds…breathless. almost as giddy as you feel. “yeah, i’d like t’ go with you.”

you shudder through your exhale, grasping at your phone with both hands. “yeah. okay. it’s, uh— it’s tonight, at seven.”

“i’ll pick you up at six.”

somehow, that sets your nerves alight. your voice is unbearably small when you respond, “okay.”

silena seems content to leave it at that, and you exchange a few more words before hanging up. somehow, the silence that follows feels oppressive—you blame it on the lack of insulation in your kitchen.

you wander off to your bedroom to get ready, thinking of it as nothing. surely, you tell yourself, nothing will ruin tonight.

“si, i need help. please.”

silena had picked up on the first ring, having entered the lobby of the venue where you were supposed to be meeting her. joni and kyra had all but begged to help her pick out her outfit for her little date—a notion that irritated the life out of her, considering no date with you could ever be considered little—and she’d ran a couple minutes late. but when she’d gotten there, you were nowhere to be found.

she’d been making her third comb-over of the place when her phone had rang in her pocket and she’d all but crumpled with relief right there on the hardwood when she’d seen your caller id on her screen. it was only when she picked up and your voice came through, croaking and small, that her nerves were set alight once more.

“‘course, love,” she murmurs into the phone, already up and alert for wherever you needed her. “where are you? i’ll come get you.”

“um—” you mumble, your voice echoing a little strangely. “the women’s bathroom. the one to the right of the lobby entrance? i’m alone.”

“there in two. hang tight.”

you sniffle, and something in her heart fractures. “okay.”

the line clicks dead, and she comes back into focus. her surroundings have become darker, sharper, marked with silhouettes with no face or name—only obstacles in her path to get to you. she walks through, watching them part for her, and makes it there early for once.

swinging the door to the bathroom open, she calls your name. immediately, she hears shifting from the middle stall, and your voice follows shortly. “si?”

she tries not to sigh too loudly in her relief. “yeah, ‘s me. what’s goin’ on, dove?”

“i—” you start, followed by a brief choke on a sob. she has to fight the urge to march over and rip the bathroom door clean off its hinges just to hold you close, to soothe your tears. “my period came when i left, and i didn’t realize it until i got here, and— and my dress, it’ll show if i wear a pad, and one of the girls who came through here gave me a tampon but i don’t know how to—”

“baby,” she interrupts, and you go quiet. “do y’ want me t’ help you?”

“...what?”

silena tries to swallow down the traitorous heat creeping up her neck. “i’ll help y’ with the tampon. if y’ want. dunno how you’re gonna get outta this mess if y’ don’t know how to use it.”

you’re quiet for a long moment—long enough for silena to shift her weight from side to side. she almost calls your name again, but you interrupt her with a mumble of a word she’s sure you’re getting tired of saying.

“okay.”

the rustle of fabric is shortly followed by the unclasping of the lock on the door, and she pulls it open perhaps a bit too quickly to fully hide her eagerness to see you again. her eyes seek you immediately.

you’re sitting there in a dress the color of a foggy morning, powder-blue clinging to your skin and shimmering palest white when your thighs shift and the fabric snags the light. your eyes are misty, mascara threatening to run down your cheeks, and you’re clutching an unwrapped tampon between shaking fingers. silena’s not sure she’s ever seen anything more beautiful than you right now.

“si,” you hiccup, “please. i need help.”

if silena focuses, she could pretend you’d said that you needed her. regardless of what you actually said, she carefully sinks to her knees in front of you. you yelp and squirm even though she’s hardly touched you, and she feels a needle of guilty pleasure at the way your face burns hot beneath the shimmery powder you’d dusted over your cheekbones.

“baby, if i’m gonna help you, i need you to open,” she says, gesturing for you to hand her the tampon. you do, but keep your thighs firmly clamped together. she clicks her tongue a little and rests a hand on your thigh, silently delighting in the way you jump at the contact.

“si, it’s—” you start, but she rubs her thumb in soothing circles against the side of your knee and you’re quickly rendered mute.

“i know. i’ll be gentle, dove,” she nods, adjusting the tampon in her hand. “but you gotta open up, okay? i don’t wanna have to make you.”

you swallow, clenching your fingers around the off-white leather of your louboutin clutch. your thighs part an inch, and silena just can’t help but let out a soft breath as she eases you all the way open.

tugging away the bloodsoaked cotton is an easy enough affair, and you mumble that you have an extra pair in your purse. she doesn’t say anything about that, only eases you open until her eyes lock on your sex, red and swollen. you’re an orchid, kissed with dew, and you flutter under her gaze. her face doesn’t twitch, and she feels your leg tense beneath your touch when you look down at her.

“you don’t have to stare,” you mumble.

“not every day m’ neighbor asks me to stick cotton up ‘er cunny,” she replies as she tugs a bit of toilet paper loose and carefully cleans what she can of the mess you’ve made.

you pluff a breath that she suspects was supposed to be exasperated laughter, and she feels your limbs relax marginally. she lets a half-smile loose as she lines the cardboard-and-cotton tube up, feeling the expression fade as she pushes it past the empty space between your legs.

“oh, oh— si, that hurts, that hurts, it—”

“i know, baby. focus on me. hold onto me if y’ gotta. try t’ relax.”

she’s methodical about it, of course, but somehow that doesn’t seem to bother you. your thighs ease a little from where they’re fighting to clamp against her grip, and your breathing goes from agonized to mildly labored.

the longer she tries to feel around for where it’s supposed to go from this angle, the more your blood dribbles onto her hand, as if offering itself up in gratitude; thick red eucharistic wine coalescing beneath her nails and between the lines in her skin arcing over her knuckles. she thrusts her hand a little more forcefully, and a strangled sound leaves you.

“easy, pup,” she murmurs, her breath flirting with your inner thigh. a drop of blood rolls down her wrist, and you cry out.

“si, i– i don’t know if i can—”

“yes you can, baby,” she says, her other hand bracing around your leg. you’re shaking like a leaf now, your clutch tossed haphazardly atop the toilet paper dispenser in favor of your nails biting into her shoulder. “you’re doing good. so good. just a lil’ more, i swear.”

you manage to nod, sweat beading along your temples and rolling down your jaw as you grasp at her desperately. she looks up at you, eyes locking on your damp skin, and feels the inane urge to lean up and lick it clean.

soon enough, she pulls back and rolls her wrist out. her palm is coated in blood—your blood—and the smell of it clashes with your perfume, mild and clean, something like lilacs. miraculously, none of it had smeared on your dress; she suspects you might have actually killed her if it did, cramps ripping through you be damned.

“atta girl,” she mumbles as she rips another length of toilet paper loose and wipes down your inner thighs. you shiver around her, and she looks up to see tears beading at the corners of your eyes. “oh, no, don’t cry. c’mon, baby. don’t cry. you did so good.”

you manage to nod weakly, fingers clutching at the walls of the stall as she stands up. silena steps out of the stall and goes to wash her hand, uncaring for how your blood cracks and dries on her palm when she stretches her fingers wide. she can feel your eyes on her back, wide and wanting as she turns the faucet as cold as it can go and lets it run over her skin until the blood flakes off and gurgles down the drain. for some reason, it feels sacreligious to wash her skin clean as if that will make the memory go away.

she hears you before she feels you, your heels clicking against the floor before your arms wrap as far as they’ll go around her waist. your weight presses into her from behind, and she’s acutely aware of how warm you are.

“thank you,” you whisper, hoarse and quiet. she wipes her hands dry before she squeezes yours.

“‘s nothin’, baby. it feel okay?”

“feels weird.”

she lets out a sound that was supposed to be a laugh, but comes out too much like a sigh to be fully that. “it’ll do that the first time. but y’ say the word and i’ll take y’ right back home, okay?”

you nod, face pressing into her back, and she pats your hands once. you’re unbearably warm, but the feeling of you sliding away from her is almost painful. she doesn’t say anything about it, just turns to you and holds out her hand.

“tha’s a good girl. c’mon, let’s not waste miss price’s tickets, yeah?”

you take her hand, your eyes looking up at her in a way that feels meant to undo her; seeking, purposeful, as if you’re trying to find something there.

“yeah.”

your words are unfocused. dreamy. she doesn’t say anything about it, just squeezes your fingers and leads you out of the bathroom.

before the door shuts behind her, she glances back inside and spots something on the bathroom floor—a watery dot of blood, hidden under the door you’d been behind. evidence of a hormonal crime scene. a secret.

she looks away and lets the door shut behind you both.

you honestly don’t remember how the rest of your date went.

you’d sat up in a balcony with shimmering red curtains pinned to its edges, toeing your flats off to tuck your feet beneath you as you watched from high above. silena had sat infuriatingly close the whole time, her knee just shy of your thigh. you’d glanced over at her more than once throughout the night and would catch her staring down at her hands. when you looked closer, you saw your blood under her nails and had turned away for the rest of the show.

she’d offered to take you home. you had replied that you could always call an uber like you had before, and she’d mumbled something about needing to show up at your door before you had the chance to call an uber in the first place. that, for some reason, had burrowed under your skin—as many of her words did.

you’d sat in the passenger seat of her nimbus grey benz, her coat tucked around your shoulders because the dress you’d selected for the night hadn’t done much to prevent goosebumps from prickling up your biceps. it was leather, the nice kind, and smelled like incense and black tea. she’d caught your eye at the red light, her cheek lined in neon, and you’d looked away because you couldn’t bear to be reminded once more of her hand covered in your blood.

she’d walked you up to your door, and you’d felt it then—that strange, inexplicable shift in the air when she’d looked at you. you’d gazed up at her, soft and open with your hand on the doorknob as if you were ready to flee, and somewhere in you had been unearthed the courage to look silena riley in the eye and ask, “do you want to come in?”

her eyes had done something then—darkened, somewhat, or maybe it was just the light playing tricks on your eyes, ever-shielded by the rose-colored glasses you wore like they were prescription. in the throes of your fatal heartbreak, you’d later come to wonder when exactly you had begun to prefer your world doused in pink.

maybe it was because it was the only way you could ever be delusional enough to fool yourself into believing she loved you.

but she had said yes, the burn of her voice rougher than usual, and you’d let her in like you always did.

what happened from there, you recall belatedly, is something you’d rather not think about now that it’s over. her eyes hadn’t left yours for a single moment as you’d shuffled into your door and through the entryway. her hand had found your hip, warm and grounding, and you’d felt the last of your inhibitions slip away and into her arms. you don’t remember what happened after you’d nudged open the door to your bedroom and let her cradle the back of your head, lowering you onto your mattress with the same careful reverence as if she were dipping you into a baptismal font.

all you remember is that she’d been warm, almost painfully so, and her mouth had tasted like chocolate despite the fact she’d told you once that she didn’t like sweets.

you wake up, abrupt as you twitch to consciousness, and it’s cold. blindly, your hand reaches out to find her—your face is still pressed in your silk pillowcase, but you lift it when you don’t find her there.

you see her almost immediately. her back is faced to you, tugging on the sleeves of the shirt she’d been wearing beneath her blazer the night before. dazedly, you wonder why she’s in such a hurry to leave. it’s hardly daybreak, and you know neither of you have anywhere to be on a sunday morning, so—

“si?”

she stills at your call of her name, hoarse with sleep. but she doesn’t turn around, and part of you already understands before either of you even say anything. your veins curdle with dread, sour and wrong in the back of your throat, and you try to fight the nausea pooling at the bottom of your ribs as you sit up and tug your sheets over your chest.

“are you—?” you start, but the words get caught in your throat. you’re not sure when the last time you were ever rendered so dumbly speechless was.

she fills in the gaps for you. “headin’ out.”

it feels like she’d slapped you clean across the face. your voice is unbearably, pathetically small when you pipe up, “you…you’re not going to stay?”

she’s silent. that’s enough of a response for you.

“oh,” you mumble, almost exhaling the word. you suddenly feel like you’re going to be sick. she turns around to face you, and you realize with a start that she’d heard you despite being across the room.

“no, baby—” silena begins to speak, but you’re already turned away from her and tugging on your shirt from where it sits atop your sheets, discarded since the night before.

“no,” you say, too quickly. “i get it. this wasn’t supposed to— we weren’t…”

you swallow around the sudden tightness in your throat, ignoring how your heart traitorously congeals in your chest, like your blood is bursting from your veins and crashing into it in a great flood. the red sea, tucked in your ribs.

“we weren’t even…” you try again, looking away so you don’t have to see the indifference and thinning patience on her face. “we never—”

silena says your name. abrupt and short, no more ‘baby’ or ‘pup’. for some reason, that hurts more than any silence she could have offered you.

“you don’t—” she says. “baby, you have to understand. i never wanted to—”

the world tilts two degrees backwards. you feel like you’re going to throw up, again.

she cuts herself off with a hitch in her breathing, running a hand through her close-cropped hair. you’re struck with a sudden memory of your own fingers carding lovingly through it as she’d leaned over you, softness in the spaces between your knuckles as you’d cried out her name. your face heats up with shame as you look away, eyes burning.

“don’t,” you whisper. she hears that too, hand falling to her side.

“pup—”

“i said don’t,” you repeat, gathering what’s left of your shredded pride to turn your voice into something hard, something unyielding. “you don’t want me. this was a one time thing. i get it. just— just leave, please. if that’s all you wanted, i’d rather you just…”

she’d mentioned to you once that she’d shot up like a weed in her mid-20s, and now she was practically miss price’s height—but in this moment, silena has never looked smaller. “pup, you know that isn’t—”

“don’t i?” you say. you’re not giving her much space to plead her case, you’re aware. but she knew what she was doing, slipping into your bed with all the experience she held over you under her belt, and so you can’t find it in yourself to feel as bad as you probably should. “was it fun for you, at least? to feel like you won because you got to me?”

“that is not what—”

“then what is it, si?” you nearly shout. “what could have possibly led you to leaving the second you woke up after fucking me, without even trying to let me know?”

she’s silent, again. your heart splinters clean in two.

“baby,” silena tries, a hand raised as if to soothe a feral creature. your blood is still under her nails. you bristle at that—you had, more than anything, never wanted her to see you as something deranged. never wanted her to see you for what you were.

“silena,” you reply, the hurt in your expression melting away and stiffening into something angry. good. anger is safer than vulnerability when she’s looking at you like that. “get out.”

“baby, please—”

you shoot up to your feet abruptly, ignoring how your skull throbs mercilessly in protest. “i said get out!”

in a fit of rage, you grab your pillow and hurl it at her. it thumps harmlessly off of her shoulder, and you stumble forward with the effort. you faintly register your hip slamming against the corner of your nightstand, but you can barely find it in yourself to care.

“get out!” you shriek, unable to hold back the tears that hurtle down the apples of your cheeks. “get out, or i swear to god— i never want to see you again!”

your tears run cool—she’d cleaned your face of your makeup as you’d fallen asleep the night before. somehow, you feel uglier than if you’d had overnight mascara rolling down your cheeks; the picture of a heartbroken little girl crying for her mommy to fix it better. that shatters you, unduly—the fact that in front of the most beautiful woman you know, you feel uglier than ever.

silena’s eyes are darting about, from your hip to your eyes and back again, as if she doesn’t know which part of you she should look at. you feel a hot spike of anger pulse through you unbidden as you look her in the eye.

“i said,” you say, deceptively sweet, before you let it melt away, “get out.”

she says nothing this time. no more ‘baby’, no more ‘pup’. not even your name. you think that the shameful little whisper of cruelty that oscillates through you must be showing on your face, because she stumbles as if you’d driven your knuckles clean into her throat.

good, that vicious part of you says. she knew i had to have loved her to do this with her, and she used that to get what she wanted.

an eye for an eye, silena.

you watch her leave. it takes you twenty five seconds to hear your front door click shut, and then five more before you’re doubling over and sobbing into your hands.

the slow awakening of city life outside you becomes a dull ring in your ears. your hip is beginning to flare with a gradual, almost quiet pain from where you’d hit it in your haste to get her out of your sight before she could see you like this. you ignore it, your stomach rolling as you realize what you’ve done.

it takes you another fifteen minutes to stumble to your feet and do your best imitation of your morning routine. you look at yourself in the mirror as you apply your cleanser, your eyes meeting your reflection’s—dull and glazed over, like a dead fish. you can’t remember the last time you’d felt so…hollow. you’re not sure you ever have.

the rest of the day, you don’t hear from her. your phone remains silent, save for the occasional email. you get more work done than you have since you moved here. your coworker even comments that you’re doing beautifully, that you’re such a sweet daisy for picking up so much of the workload. you stomach it with a smile and try to ignore how miserable you feel.

all day, you mourn. you wonder for a moment if she’s mourning the same way you are, then refuse to believe it as soon as the thought crosses your mind. your mother had always remarked that with your tender, teary-eyed countenance, someone would eat you alive one day.

you just never expected that silena would be the one picking you out of her teeth.

copr. 2025, kk-iki.

#writing. 📖#kiki's creations. 🥟#cod #cod mwii #cod mw2 #call of duty #cod modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare #ghost call of duty #simon riley #cod ghost #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #cod x reader

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