#Queer Writer

[gor3sigil]

A cis woman tells me that maybe she should transition to gain male privilege as I'm recovering from getting beaten up in the men's bathrooms.

I tell her to be my guest and give me a call when she gets her jaw broken, I always carry a first aid kit and a pepper spray.

She calls me a misogynistic asshole.

A cis man tells me that he'd sure love some T.

Gave him my prescription and best of luck with the constant shortages and getting denied.

He calls me a pussy.

I'm fighting for my life and reproductive rights. I get told to get off women's fights, that it's not about me, like I shed my womb after my first T shot.

I search for support groups for SA victims, and I'm stuck in the same “women/NBs only”. Still shooting my shot, send an application. I introduce myself. Never get a call back.

I go to a trans night. Say I go by he/him. Get told back “yeah, that's how we all start !” by a trans woman. I'm too exhausted, I get up and I leave.

I hang out with my friends, one of them drunkenly says masculinity is a prison we must learn to escape. She gets rows of applause. Back to drinking alone.

Yes I could explain it. But who'd you rather be ? A delusional girl or a man made threat ?Or it could be better, I could just not exist ! And we'd bleach my corpse and I'd become a casualty. Not an F, ot an M, a W for Wound and for Wrong.

I put a candle on a single cupcake, 2 years on HRT. I blow it in the dark. Curtains closed like casket.

[teencopandthesourwolf]

edited version can be read on ao3 HERE

.

“Need a hand with that?”

Derek didn't drop the tire he was carrying, but it was a close thing. He'd recognise that voice anywhere—would know it in a sea of a thousand others.

He slowly turned on his heel to find its owner sat in Derek's favourite tree.

Stiles.

“You're here,” he breathed, not bothering to hide the mix of shock and relief that coloured his own voice and features.

Stilesʼ lips twitched. “I'm here,” he confirmed, just in case Derek needed to hear it.

“Hey,” Derek said, eloquent as ever.

“Hey yourself,” Stiles grinned back.

Shifting his weight on the tree branch, Stiles then pulled himself up to standing. He wiped his hands on the ass of his jeans before proffering one towards Derek.

“I'm Mieczysław Stilinski. It's really nice to meet you, dude.”

Stilesʼcheeks flushed an overwhelmingly pretty shade of pink, and Derek wanted to eat him.

Reaching out to take the hand in one of his own, the pads of his fingertips brushed the familiar Jack rabbit pulse at Stiles's wrist, for just a second, and it was both a calling card and like a huge sigh of relief.

He turned the name around in his mind.

Mieczysław. Mieczysław Stilinski.

It was unexpected, and very Polish, and Derek sort of adored it.

Looking a little antsy, Stiles said, “It, uh, means 'sword' in Polish. If you go in for that sort of thing.” He blushed some more and then snorted at himself. “But yeah, I know it's kinda... ʼSʼobviously why I go by Stiles—which was my Grandfather's nickname too, by the way.”

Derek's heart swelled in his chest.

This was what they could've had if things had gone differently for them.

He cleared his throat, took a deep intake of woodsmoke-laced air into his lungs, then said, “Broderick Seth Rodman Hale, third son of Talia and Seth Hale of the Hale Pack of Beacon Hills county, North California, and I'm very pleased to meet you're acquaintance. Oh, and do not call me dude, by the way.”

“Broderick? Are you shitting me right now?!” Stiles blurted, trying and failing to not laugh.

Derek rolled his eyes and it felt like breathing. “Seriously? I think you'll find you don't have even half a leg to stand on, Mieczysław.”

“Actually, I have two, Broderick Seth Rodman Hale, and I diligently used the both of them to come out here to Bumfuck nowhere to find you.”

He shot Derek with ridiculous finger guns then blew away imaginary gunpowder smoke, and if it wasn't for the kid's beard it could've easily been thirteen-years ago.

Not a kid anymore.

Stiles looked amazing. A little broader, and a little fuller in the face, and the beard really, really suited him. At once, Derek had the desperate urge to sink his claws into it and paw at the pale skin beneath. He wanted to back Stiles into the bark of the tree and bury his nose in that long, mole-peppered neck he still had dreams about, to breathe in pure unadulterated Stiles.

He swallowed thickly, licking at his dry lips and wishing they were Stilesʼ. Had to force himself to unclench the fist not currently grasping Stiles's hand.

Derek had to try his best to pretend that he wasn't very aware of the fact that they were still very much holding onto each other.

“Broderick means 'brother' in Old Norse, if you go in for that sort of thing,” he offered, borrowing Stiles's banter.

Stiles's smile was easy, albeit tainted with a hint of sadness for that piece of information. He was sort of—looser. More relaxed, and definitely less agitated than he used to be. Though he smelled exactly the same as he always had: Of strong coffee and Bath & Body Oak shower gel and wild cinnamon and lemon sherbet dip, and that particular warm smack of something that Derek had always struggled to place—the very essence of Mieczysław 'Stiles' Stilinski.

The familiar tang zinged over his taste buds like popping candy, and his wolf took up its routinely impatient pacing at his core as if they had seen Stiles only yesterday.

“I'm—uh, I don't—you look good, Stiles. Really good.”

This human was the only creature on planet earth that had Derek Hale fumbling his words.

Stiles was smirking his signature smirk—only there was something new pulling at the curve of that life-ruining mouth of his.

Unerring confidence.

Derek sniffed at the air and licked at his lips again so he could taste that, too.

“You're look pretty fine yourself there, Sourwolf,” Stiles divulged, mirroring Derek again by licking his own lips. He shamelessly looked Derek up and down and said, “Your edges aren't quite so sharp, and you're little softer ʼround the eyes, like maybe you're—I dunno. Something closer to being happy?” His eyes shone like the full moon in the dark when he told Derek, “And, dare I say it, maybe not even all that sour anymore?”

Derek huffed a breath out through his nostrils that was in the proximity of a laugh.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Looks good on you, man. Really good.”

Stiles was borrowing Derek's words, and if he kept saying things like that to Derek while looking at Derek the way that he was, Derek would have to restrain himself from picking the guy up by the scruff of his very nice sweater and kissing the words right out of his mouth.

Then everything sort of stilled, somehow, including the wind, and the birds, and them, as if the whole world had just halted for something incredibly important.

They stood there, just gazing at each other. Like there wasn't anything else they could or would possibly be doing right now.

Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty.

It was obvious to even the blades of grass on the ground that they both still felt it.

Slowly, slowly, they caught back up to reality.

Derek took a breath and found his voice again.

“Might've taken a few pointers from a kid I used to know,” he smiled, eyes never leaving Stilesʼ.

Then he thought in for a penny and admitted, “I hoped you'd come looking for me—and I want you to know that I'm really, really glad that you did.”

Stiles squinted at him through the sun's afternoon rays that broke through the Colorado cloud cover like the heavens had suddenly appeared. In that moment, he reminded Derek of the beautiful golden Aztec Sanvitalia shrub that grew down by the little stream behind his cabin. He wondered briefly if that was the missing base note in Stiles's scent, and felt a little insane with it all.

“Well, I knew I'd find you,” Stiles shrugged, “because one: I'm like a dog with a bone, and two: You left a trail of breadcrumbs so fucking vague only a genius like yours truly would be able to follow.”

He then shielded those big brown doe eyes of his from a particularly bright sunbeam with a still-bony hand, and the squinted look on his face was so fond Derek had to sink his canines into his lip to hold in the pitiful whine that threatened to climb up and out of his chest and escape him.

He stepped closer to the tree; closer to the boy who runs with wolves, who was definitely not a boy any longer.

“You make it sound as if we're in some sort of fairytale, Stiles,” Derek said as he attempted to blink Stiles's beauty from his eyes, knowing it would be a fruitless endeavour.

Finally, Stiles reached out to pull Derek down and into his lap, and Derek went like a force of nature.

He dropped the tire this time.

Stiles smelled like love when he said, “Weren't we always, Der?” right into Derek's mouth.

And Derek knew.

As Stiles leaned in and kissed him softly, and he kissed Stiles softly right back, he knew they both understood that although they had to travel far from Beacon Hills to find it, they had both—at long last—made it home.

.

on ao3 HERE if you'd like to leave me a comment <3

i saw the new dob shoot and my brain remembered the hoech one and went ping! this is for @wulfnerd seeing as they came up with the wonderful Broderick as Derek's full first name in the tags of a post of mine who knows how long ago...

unedited, please be forgiving <3

[eddiestightywhities]

also on ao3 HERE

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“So, I overheard this guy in the line at the coffee shop this morning talking about name meanings—”

“Of course you did,” Eddie interjects, not unkindly.

Buck turned up with beers about a half hour ago, and has had his head in his phone for the last, what, twenty minutes? Something like that.

This is the first thing he's said since Eddie let him in and he sat his ass down on the couch in silence, looking like he needed Eddie to just allow him to.

Eddie did.

“—and I thought I'd look up ours.”

He's chewing on his bottom lip like it tastes good.

Eddie surprises himself by wondering if it does.

“I'm guessing you already know what Christopher means.”

Thinking back to when Shannon asked if he liked the name, Eddie smiles.

“Means 'Bearer of Christ', or something, right? We chose it because was Shannon's grandfather's name, though. He was Greek, and she adored him.”

Searching fingers instinctively find his pendant. It's positioned to the left, sitting right over his heart.

He misses his son like he'd miss a lung.

Buck looks up at him and smiles back, and Eddie feels glad the release he'd found dancing 'round his living room earlier isn't going to suddenly disappear down the bathroom sinkhole, along with his moustache.

“So, tell me, what does Edmundo mean, oh scholarly one?”

Buck's eyebrows try to meet his hairline.

“You don't know?”

Eddie tips his head back against the couch and scrunches his mouth up into nose.

“I have sisters, man, of course I know what it means. But that doesn't mean I don't want you to tell me.”

Buck seems somewhat happy with that.

“Well, it's a derivative of the Old English name Edmund, which is a combination of the words ēad and mund. The first part means prosperity, or riches, which is a bit of a bust, sorry man,” and he tries for a grin. It almost hits.

“But the the mund part means protector—which is pretty spot on, I reckon.”

Buck's eyelashes are kind of blonde, and kind of pretty. Eddie's thought it before, but there's just something about them in this light, in Eddie's house, on Eddie's couch.

“It's actually a real pretty name, Edmundo. Don't know if I've ever told you I think that.”

“Don't think I've ever told you your eyelashes are kind of pretty, so that makes us even, I guess.”

Eddie smiles at Buck, big and genuine, and somehow it's so easy.

Buck smiles back. Looks a little confused, or pleased, or both. Eddie's not sure, but either is okay with him.

“Um, thanks?”

Eddie bites his tongue between his teeth in a poor effort to stop his grin turning positively goofy.

Buck takes it for what it is, and bats his eyelashes at Eddie, silly, and laughs.

His whole demeanor then changes as he finally settles properly into the couch and gifts his lungs with what might be the first proper breath he's taken since he arrived.

“Anyway, Evan is the worst of the three. It means yew, like the tree? Which is—it symbolises, like, spirituality, and rebirth and shit like that. 'S not really, uh, me, you know?”

“You mean like Evan isn't really you?”

Buck bites at his red, red lip again.

Eddie decides it'd taste like cherry Chupa Chups.

“Yeah. But it's—my name.”

“Except it isn't though, it's it?” Eddie reminds him. “You're name is Buck, Buck. You decided that.”

“I don't know why he always insisted on calling me Evan. Or why I just—let him. It was kind of weird.”

Tommy.

"Called? Past tense?” Eddie flips his tongue in his mouth. Breathes a little more deliberately.

Buck looks at his phone again before he's slowly placing it down on the couch between them.

His fingers are touching the outside of Eddie's thigh, and Eddie's suddenly acutely aware that he still isn't wearing any pants.

Buck leaves his hand where it is.

“He, uh, he dumped me. Because I—”

Buck sucks in oxygen, a lot of it, and holds it in his lungs before puffing out his cheeks as he makes a show of blowing it back out again.

“I asked him to move in with me.”

Eddie was not expecting either of those statements.

"Ouch.”

Buck's fingers twitch against Eddie's skin, and Eddie feels it travel right down his leg and into his toes, which curl involuntarily into the carpet.

“You wanna talk about it?” he offers, kind of knowing Buck doesn't. He will when he's ready.

“Not really.”

Eddie licks at his lips. They taste like beer, and a little like confidence.

“How about Buck?”

Buck looks at him, perplexed.

Eddie's leg is starting to cramp a bit.

He doesn't move it.

“A Buck is another name for a stag, right?” he continues. “And the stag symbolises strength and purity—

“Don't forget fertility” Buck is looking at Eddie, and it feels like something.

Eddie snorts. “'Course, don't wanna forget fertility.”

Buck smiles the first proper Buck smile of the evening, and Eddie's feels it in his chest.

“Hey, hang on, how come you know so much about stags, Edmundo?”

“You did that project with Chris about the forest.”

Buck blinks at him.

“Dude that was, like, years ago. And, as you said, I was the one learning all about the woodland creatures and different types berries and toadstools, so how do you—”

“Because you told me,” Eddie shrugs a shoulder.

Buck blinks some more.

“And you—remembered that?” he asks.

In this moment, Eddie couldn't blink, nor look away from Buck, even if somebody were to pay him.

“I remember everything you tell me.”

It's weird but it's like the air itself is crackling as they sit here, just staring at each other.

They look at each other for what feels like a long time. Or maybe it's just a single heartbeat, Eddie can't really be sure.

He watches as Buck swallows, his Adam's apple a calling card.

Eddie isn't entirely sure of why he thinks of that.

Until he is.

When Buck moves his hand, it's to slide it fully onto Eddie's thigh to just sit there, right at home.

Eddie's suddenly blinking so much he's a little worried he might be stroking.

He doesn't mean to say, “Can you smell toast?” but finds himself saying it anyway.

Buck smile is both crooked and adorable.

“You worried you're having a stroke, old man?”

“We'd have been at the same school at the same time, Buck. I'm not that much older than you.”

“You are old and I am young and everyone and the universe knows this,” Buck claims, cocky and sure of himself once more.

Eddie licks at his lips again.

“I, uh, I think I finally believe you.”

Buck now mirrors him, licking his own lips.

Cherry Chupa Chups.

“You mean about the universe?” he's asking, like he doesn't almost always knew what Eddie means.

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes.

Buck waits.

Just as Eddie is thinking he really should go put some on some sweats or something, Buck must get impatient because he replies, “I think it always wanted you to believe.”

Eddie doesn't have a clue what time it is, or whether he had dinner or not, or how he got so damn lucky.

“I'm gonna choose to believe, because you believe—and I believe in you, Buck” he says, somehow both sure and unsure of absolutely everything that is to come.

At long last, he finds he is totally okay with that.

“Anyways, I can hear it now,” he tells Buck, “and I'm listening.”

.

unedited; pls be kind!

.

edited version now found HERE on ao3 if you'd like to pop across and leave me a comment xp

[love-ardour-anarchism]

i'm a dyke but i'm also a little bit of a boy

my gender is incomprehensible and my passing is not bound by any true logic except that of the Fair Folk

when i'm out with partner A1 people often think we're a straight couple where i'm "the guy": this gives me gender euphoria because i'm butch and i've successfully fooled "the straights"

when i'm out with partner A2 (not to be confused with A1) people think we're a gay couple where i'm a twink/feminine gay guy/fagboy and this pleases me greatly because I love to confuse people AND i'm a bit of a boy AND i love being effemminate for my partner but its kinda in the way of "butch dyke goes drag queen"

when i'm out with partner J1 people usually think we're "just friends" but also that there's some underlying mystery... people also consistently think that she (arguably a cis woman, don't ask) looks more like a dyke than me, this is hilarious to me but also I look like a more feminine girl next to her and I like that cause sometimes we do a little tomboyfoolery

when i'm out with partner J2 (yes, i'm collecting same-letter names, A1 and A2 are both Alex and both nonbinary, i'm a stereotype) people are most certain that we're a lesbian couple where there's a competition for who's more of a fucking hell-bent dyke.. she takes me on dates to hardware stores and buys me carabiners and knows how to fix things with tools but i'm a little soft butch gentleman-ass knuckle tattoo dyke who looks great in suspenders and a bowtie... shes the practical type, i'm more of a statement piece of decorative function with a side of emotional support

in conclusion: you cannot misgender me in any way that matters and no binary will ever catch me alive the way that people "read" my gender has more to do with who i'm with than with who i am, all i know is i'm the punkest and most dog-brained fucking dyke in this part of town and i've lived through enough transphobic and queerphobic bullshit that accidental misgendering doesn't bother me and if someone's really dead-set on misgendering me on full purpose then to me thats worth it cause for every transphobic cunt that tries that i've been seen by 12 people who for just one moment knew that there's other queers around here and certainly this dyke with more tattoos and patches on her vest than self preservation has got your back

i'm alive and very happy to be, visibility is life

[heyblue]

Snowflake method of writing? Hehe nah I do the whole “outline this as far as Brain go then fly by the seat of my pants and blaze through the second act slump until I reach the end” method of writing.

[topazadine]

Maybe perhaps you will consider reading this

Uileac Korviridi has three goals: honoring his late parents, protecting his little sister Cerie, and serving his country. Fellow student Orrinir Relickim has a chip on his shoulder the size of a mountain range; his fierce demeanor hides an unrelentingly tender heart. Both boys only seek martial prowess. Destiny has other plans. Over the course of their education, Uileac and Orrinir gain instruction in something much different: the agonizing glory of young love. Explore their coming-of-age romance, twined with poetry, mythology, and war.

What people are saying:

"Amazing Characters and a Great Universe" "This is a lovely coming of age story that is set in a fantasy land that is still so relatable!" "I love the way Sidhe captures the emotions of her characters."

[ghoulishbuck]

Things I love about writing: forcing my trauma and irrational thoughts on my characters, the fact that it’s free therapy, the fact that I can tell writers or readers that I’m playing out my story in my head and not be called lazy, the community, the idea of getting published one day.

Things I dislike about writing: writing- why doesn’t everything in my head automatically transfer over. And the process of getting traditionally published.

[llyfrenfys]

Tried to make a post on Instagram about this too but it decided to glitch out on me for some reason.

But the gist of it is :

I really need your help.

I pay rent on the 20th of each month and only just managed to pay it yesterday. I'm a queer disabled transmasc artist and writer struggling to survive in this cost of living crisis. I used a food bank for the first time yesterday and will be relying upon it regularly from now on.

It's my 24th birthday next week and I've put all my prints at half price - any purchase (link in my bio) or sharing this post will help a ton.

[mxmorbidmidnight]

⛧𓋹⛧𓋹⛧⛧𓋹⛧𓋹⛧⛧𓋹⛧𓋹⛧⛧𓋹⛧𓋹⛧⛧𓋹⛧𓋹⛧⛧𓋹

𝑇𝐻𝐸

𝑆𝐻𝐴𝑃𝐸𝑆𝐻𝐼𝐹𝑇𝐸𝑅

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ᚱ ᚲ ᚷ ᚹ ᚺ ᚾ ᛁ ᛃ ᛇ ᛈ ᛉ ᛋ ᛗ ᛏ ᛜ ᛚ

I greet thee dear, welcome to my blog. I am The Shapeshifter, The Wizard Goose, Plague upon John of England *menacing honking*. I am a Witch and a feral beast. I spend these days in which I suspend casting runes, spitting tricksome prophecies and harassing the English monarchy. How I have come here I know not, but joyous I am to converse with thee. I hope thou may find a thing of sorts here, whether it be comfort, whimsy, disturbance or perhaps the cup of dice.

𓋹

𓋹

I am called many names. Shapeshifter. Versipellis, Gestaltwandler, ilcruthach, Vormveranderaar. All words meaning Shapeshifter. As well as Werewolverine, Lovecat, Dracaena, She-wolf and Jackalope Hare. These names I did snatch into my claws while doing historical, mythological, folkloric and etymological research. If you wish to know the etymology and history of these names look upon this post

🕸️What art thou to call me? however you please. Choose one in the previous list or assign me thine own title. As long as it is done with respect I shalt answer. To be given a name is a great honour. 🕸️

⛧𓋹⛧𓋹⛧⛧𓋹⛧𓋹⛧⛧𓋹⛧𓋹⛧⛧𓋹⛧𓋹⛧⛧𓋹⛧𓋹⛧⛧𓋹

I fall under the definition of nonhuman, I take many forms. Most notably a goose. Much of the posting thou may see upon here is I, The Mighty Goose, Plague upon John of England violently honking or screeching in Shakespearean. I often find myself taking forms such as that of a siren, Dracaena, Wolverine, Harpy, Jaguar, Bin Chicken, Hyena and jackrabbit. The forms in which I might take are boundless as the ways of water across this sphere. For I am whatever I please.

ᛐᛜᚢᚦ

☾ I bear connection to mythological and folkloric shapeshifters, as to be they are ballads of myself or perhaps a close friend ☽

My gender is fluid. The pronouns I do favour art he/she/it, preferably alternating between the three as I cannot be confined by one singular. I am polyamorous and queer. OOooOooOh hOnK hOnK

As of now I am writing The Shapeshifter. A ballad describing my identity. Here you may find what of it has been released. For the past four years I have been crafting a novel series. It is influenced by folklore and mythology, containing queer, nonhuman and disabled characters.

𝑃𝑂𝐸𝑇𝑅𝑌 𝑆𝐴𝑀𝑃𝐿𝐸𝑆

The Shapeshifter's lament (part of the Shapeshifter)

The Shapeshifter

Vivamus Moriendium Est

Fight Dog

The Verdict

𝑀𝑌 𝑁𝑂𝑉𝐸𝐿

Lore

Character intro

I am disabled and neurodiverse. I have FND, tourettes and POTs and I am a cane user (in need of a wheelchair but unable to access). I have OCD, ADHD, sensory processing and likely autism. I will often post about disability advocacy on this blog. I am apart of the goth subculture (my favourite bands art The Cure, Inkubus Sukkubus, Sisters of mercy, Bauhaus, Scary Bitches, Coctaeu twins). I am interested in classical literature, History, Folklore, Paganism, vulture culture, Etymology, Shakespeare and gothic horror. I will on occasion post images of my goth makeup upon this platform. I art a minor, be freaky and thou shalt be CURSED I say! grime of a chicken hearted mutt upon thee for thou art liver bellied and foul as a cattle foot in a yew stump.

ReQUESTS (honk)

The Challenge of the goose, tis a challenge where I the tricksome goose shalt grant thee a riddle. Simply request for one in mine ask box or say "I call upon the challenge of the goose". I will trial thee with a riddle I have written, if thou does succeed I shalt grant thee an honorary goose title.

In addition if thou art curious about my writing, identity as a shapeshifter or wish to ask me any questions, do so. Tis no reason for shame, inquiry and curiosity about what we do not understand is a wonderful thing.

Goth resources

Boundaries:

I AM A MINOR!!!! I will not private message with adults, adults can interact with my blog but private messaging is off the table. DNI: perverts and bigots. I don’t mind images of dead animals as long as it isn’t a dead goose. Please don’t send me pictures of dead, injured or cooked geese.

Tags:

#the shapeshifter's riddles : my poems

#morbid lore : to do with my ongoing ye olde goose feud with the entirety of Britland.

#challenge of the goose: answering riddle requests

#morbid memes: memes I have made myself (as seen below, mostly to do with geese)

#morbid's gaggle : interactions with moots

#morbid midnight : I tend to tag all my posts under this tag.

#morbid Reblogs

And now I must return to unionising the cows under lesbianism against John of England. Upon thee I wish plentiful fruit, soft sun upon thine cheek, much bounty and many adventures to seek. May the skin of your palms be coarse to the Strike of a bramble. So says The Shapeshifter

[moon-kissed-corner]

Extract from a letter (dating to 1939), which is featured in the book Jean Cocteau: Lettres à Jean Marais "Jean Cocteau: Letters to Jean Marais" (Éditions Albin Michel, 1987).

The text was translated by Alexandra Trone, for Rictor Norton's book My Dear Boy (1998).

[leave-a-message19]

It begins!!!

[gor3sigil]

I first came out as trans to my father in 2020, after almost 2 years of living as a man with my friends and partners. He told me I could do whatever I wanted but he’d never called me by anything but my deadname. After thinking about it a bit, he then added: “Wait, but if you have a beard, I’d look like a fool if I called you that !”.

This isn’t a wholesome story.

In 2022, when Laurier, a trans illustrator, made his series of posters to educate Planned Parenthood staff, the whole country was outraged by one that depicted a pregnant trans man. It said “At the Planned Parenthood, men can be pregnant too.” and was made to be used for training and communication, not for the general public. And yet, mainstream medias torned it appart to shreds, red-faced on the news channels during peak hours, screaming “WHAT SHOULD I TELL MY 6 YEARS OLD KID IF SHE EVER SEES THAT ?”.

My father was part of the right-winged crowd, Facebook posts by Facebook posts, a wall of stones carved out of the farce that was my existence.

I explained it to him, reminded him the beard, what if I had one and was also pregnant ? Wouldn’t I be a man, yet carrying life ?

He deleted his posts.

This isn’t a wholesome story.

He came to visit me in 2017, when I was his daughter still. We went grocery shopping. I complained about my stomach hurting. He asked me if I used protection with my partner. I said I did. And he said, “you better”. Two aisles down I picked up a bag of frozen spinach and he punched me in the guts, in the middle of a crowded store, in front of his girlfriend. When I told him it hurt, he told me “that’s the point”, and he laughed.

It’s 2025. I’m carving the silhouette of my brother, the son my father used to call a repressed faggot. I carry in my skin a dying fecundity, faltering like my sister’s after her first baby, as if it heard my dad say that she “shouldn’t ever spawn”. And as I do my shot, I hand over what’s left of my vial to a trans friend, proving how my dad was right when he called me

a parasite.

[teencopandthesourwolf]

read on ao3 HERE

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He didn't mean to do it. He meant it, with every fucked-up fibre of his being he meant it, but he didn't mean to actually do it. 

Stiles had just—been so very fucking Stiles, in that stupid and irresponsible jump-head-first-into-the fray-on-everybody-else's-behalf kind of way that he has about him, and after the pack had neutralised the danger but everybody's veins still had more adrenaline than blood coursing though them, Derek felt—feels—so fucking livid and so damn grateful and so utterly, utterly muddled that he's grabbed Stiles by the shoulders and is pulling the kid's body into his own, hard, crashing their torsos together like a devastating highway collision with his arms enveloping Stiles's shoulders as a crushed car bonnet wraps itself around a tree. 

Now—at a clearing in the trees on what has been Hale land for generations going back centuries, with Stiles in his space and his nostrils and in his fucking head—Derek is terrified. 

There's a fairly stilted, “Whoa, okay, alright. We're doing this, huh, big guy?” But then Stiles is relaxing into the hug. He sort of melts, actually, snaking long and wiry yet surprisingly strong arms around Derek's waist; so very warm and alive, alive, alive.

“Stiles, you shouldn't have—why do you always have to—you could've fucking died!” he admonishes, although it doesn't come out half as harshly as he means and wants it to. 

Lost, Derek shoves his nose into Stiles's neck and breathes.

Stiles lets him—because of course he does—cocking his head to the side to accommodate Derek's needs.

“Must be a day that ends in Y, huh, Der?” he answers, ever the class clown.

Derek quietly growls his annoyance and relief in equal measure, and even though he senses the rest of the pack has now gathered around them, and hating that he has an audience for this, he squeezes Stiles into him impossibly more.

Stiles wheezes comically then jokes some more, because humour is his default in any situation. “Hey, why don't you ease up a bit there, buddy? Kinda need this work of art that I call a body to stay in one piece if I'm ever gonna save your wolfy-ass again, oh Alpha, my Alpha.”

Derek promptly shuts him up with a slick lick to the jugular before he's really had a chance to think about what he's doing. Surprisingly, the kid shivers beautifully. But even Derek's tongue doesn't keep him quiet for very long. Only Stiles Stilinski could ramble incessantly with a werewolf at his throat.

“Okay, shit, alright, that—ahhhhhhh, that tickles, Fido! Heh, does this mean I'm gonna have to get the collar and chain on y—oh my fucking god!”

Derek clamps his jaws around the most exquisite throat he's ever seen, smelled, dreamed about, and growls out a warning sound that causes the betas to back off and Stiles to go weak at the knees.

Mine, he thinks loudly with a growl.

After a few delicious moments of Derek gnawing on Stiles's tasty throat, and once they're alone in the preserve other than the nocturnal animals and eery sound of the wind picking up from the west, Derek releases his jaws' hold on the sheriff's boy—the boy who runs with wolves; little red riding hoodie; the best human Derek's ever known—and soothes the purpling mark with a lingering press of his lips.

“Oh,” is amazingly all Stiles has got to say. Derek can satisfyingly smell Stiles's arousal, though, his wolf now howling inside of him at the heady scent.

“Yeah, oh,” he answers waggishly after trying his level best to calm the feral instinct he has to pull them both down into the undergrowth and mate the boy, here and now.

He finally manages to pull himself away from Stiles but doesn't release him from his grip entirely.

Fire-red irises find big, brown doe eyes and a smirk that Derek wants to lick right off Stiles's face to replace with a look of pure ecstasy.

“Stop doing stupid things,” he demands.

Begs. 

“Yeah, no, probably never gonna—oomph!” 

Derek kisses Stiles. Kisses him like it's the end of the fucking world, because he's realised that every time Stiles puts his own life in danger, it feels like it might be.

Wildly, Stiles doesn't hesitate this time. He kisses Derek right back, like he gets it.

Now found, Derek takes and he takes and he takes.

Stiles kisses like nobody else in existence, Derek is sure of it. He is earth and wind, fire and water.

Fucking elemental. 

When presumably Stiles needs to breathe, he tears his lips away from Derek's—now swollen and blood-red—and Derek can't help the whine that escapes his. Their foreheads bump as they both pant, attempting to settle as they shake with waning post-fight nerves and a near-feverish desire.

Stiles bargains, “How ‘bout if you keep doing that, I'll get myself a bigger bat?”

Derek both hates and loves the smile that spreads across his face like a rash, entirely of its own volition. 

“How about next time, you just wait for me?” 

“Deal,” Stiles grins and kisses Derek again—and Derek hopes it's the kind of deal that's forever.

.

for @greyhavenisback—love yew, love <3 (unedited, soz!)

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now edited and on ao3 HERE

[eddiestightywhities]

Eddie stumbles from his tangled bedsheets to go take his nightly piss—alarm clock beaming its 4:03 AM display directly onto his sleep-wrecked retinas and etching it there for what will possibly be all of eternity—because being past the age of thirty is all fun and games. 

Bare feet padding quietly as an exhausted still half-asleep one hundred and seventy-five pounds not far off six-foot guy can manage, he's just about to pass the living room when he hears... something.  

He stops. Holds his breath. Listens. 

Buck is mumbling, talking in his sleep.

“And, man, I (something something) you. Because you always listen to me; never make me feel bad for (something something), always make me feel like I'm worth sticking around for, and I (something something) for that, Eddie.”

Buck is dreaming. Buck is dreaming about Eddie. Buck is dreaming about Eddie making Buck feel wanted. 

Eddie smiles—and before realising what he's doing he is in his living room, leaning over his couch, leaning over Buck, and pressing a soft kiss to Buck's birthmark as if he's done this a thousand times before. 

Buck wakes, blinks, smiles sleepily back at Eddie, cute as a bug, and is then craning his neck to peck his own soft kiss to the small mole underneath Eddie's left eye. 

With the speed of a gunshot or a lightning strike, Eddie suddenly doesn't know why the hell Buck is sleeping on his couch instead of in his bed, or why the hell he hasn't had the guts to tell Buck that he is so, so in love with him—especially after Buck split with Tommy a few weeks back and started testing the water with Eddie when Eddie grew a moustache and styled his hair a little differently and suggested they go to that gay club down on Burbank together to drink stupid amazing pink cocktails and dance the night away as if they didn't have a care in the world)—and then just as fast, he's thinking fuck it, and la vida es demasiado corta, deciding to remedy the latter (with the hope it might remedy the former) by saying, “It's ass o'clock in the morning, Buck, and I really fucking love you.” 

Eddie's best friend is at once wide a-fucking-wake, eyes the size of abuela’s best Talavera dinner plates, mouth doing a pretty great impression of a guppy as he gawps up at Eddie. 

There's a concerningly long moment of silence, before Buck says, “Oh.” 

Like a champ, Eddie chooses to ignore the way his heart plummets as it tries to relocate somewhere deep in his gut, because he's had to get pretty damn good at that, what with everything that has happened in his loco life. So he just smiles again, a little dimmer, a little more tight-lipped, while nodding his head and rolling his eyes in a yeah, silly ol’me, huh? sort of way, and is about to push himself upright with the hand gripping the top of the couch so that he can drag his sorry ass back to his bedroom and get a tension headache from not allowing himself to cry and getting zero sleep for what will probably be the rest his life and— 

That's when Buck reaches out, a big hand grabbing at Eddie's waist. 

Eddie's gaze tears itself away from those beautiful Talavera eyes that are shining brightly in the thick darkness of his sleeping house, settling where Buck's hand is holding him in place, where the contact blazes; not like fire but like the ever-burning candle flame that's lived behind Eddie's ribcage for the past seven or so years.

“Eds, I’m—I wasn't, like, awake enough to, uh, to, to, to process that? And the thing is—” 

“Hey, no, Buck, it's okay, you don't need to explain.” Eddie's heart is falling, falling, falling, right to the very soles of his feet. “I shouldn't have just blurted that out at you, without any preamble—

“Eddie.”

“—and I definitely shouldn't have bothered you while your were—”  

“Eddie." 

“—sleeping, I just—

“Eddie, will you shut up!”  

Eddie's teeth clack as he dutifully swallows the rest of his rambling. 

“Can you please just listen to me for a sec?” Buck pleads.  

“I—yeah, Buck, sure. I'm sorry, ‘course. Sorry.”

Buck takes a breath. “You don't gotta be sorry, Eds, I was just trying to say: The thing is, I have said a lot of dumb things in my life—like a lot—but me saying ‘oh’ to you telling me that you love me? Yeah, no, that has to top the bill. Dumbest fucking thing that's ever left these lips.” Eddie can't help it when his gaze flickers to the pretty culprits; it's an involuntary action by this point. “Because,” and Buck is now licking at them—tongue wet and lush against plush red—before he's honest to Dios batting those beautiful blonde eyelashes of his in Eddie's helpless direction, then breathing his next words right into Eddie's mouth as he leans up, pulling Eddie into him at the same time and fanning the flame in Eddie's chest by saying, “I really fucking love you too, Eds.”  

And then he's kissing Eddie again—only this time he's pressing his lips into Eddie's lips, and Eddie is right there with him, kissing Buck back as if they've done this a thousand times before. 

When Buck has to pull away, presumably to prevent a crick in his neck—Eddie cannot fathom even half of another good reason to stop—Eddie goes to follow him down, so eager after so long, wanting to cover the entirety of Buck's body with the entirety of his own. But Buck shakes his head and says says, “No, wait, Eddie.”  

Before Eddie's heart can start digging its way down through the carpet and floorboards and foundations and dirt to some place that resembles an old forgotten underground well, Buck is asking, “Can I come to bed with you?”  

Then Eddie gets whiplash from having to will his heart from beating right out of his chest with just how much happiness is bursting its way in there; with Buck bursting in with all of his love and sharing it with Eddie, just like everything else in their lives.  

Eddie feels his cheeks flush when he says, “That's, uh—honestly, Buck? You'd kinda be making my favourite recurring dream come true, if you did.”

“Well, you shot my recurring dream down in flames, Eds, by not listening to me for what must be the very first time in seven literal years and talking right over my heartfelt love confession—even if I did end up stealing your line,” Buck smiles. Then he frowns and tuts dramatically.“You're a monster, Eddie Diaz,” he adds, teasing.   

Eddie pays back Buck's grin with added interest, because it's as infectious and unstoppable as the common cold.

“Firstly, you had just answered 'oh' when I told you that I loved you, and secondly, does this monster not get a pass seeing as we just got off a clusterfuck of a twenty-four and it's ass o'clock in the morning and I'd assumed you were trying to let me down gently?” 

“Absolutely not, Firefighter Diaz. One should never assume when it comes to a Buckley.” He follows the statement with a pointed look. “But I might think about letting you make it up to me,” and he's now grinning again, and this time it's a sort of sheepish, hopeful thing, “if you agree to being the teaspoon to my tablespoon in your big, comfortable bed. What do you say?” He bats those blonde lashes again, as if Eddie would need convincing. 

“I say yes sir, Firefighter Buckley,” Eddie agrees instantly, obviously, bending down to scoop a surprised Buck up and over his shoulder and into a very appropriate Evacuation Lift, Buck kind of squealing hilariously when Eddie sets off for his bedroom at what is a pretty impressive pace, if you were to ask Eddie. 

And after they've sunk their bodies beneath the tangled bedsheets at ass o'clock in the morning (4.12 AM to be precise), and as Buck wraps the entirety of his long self around the entirety of Eddie, in Eddie's bed—their bed, now, Eddie's hoping—Eddie breathes in a full breath for the first time all summer, allowing himself to love and be loved.  

His next big breath is a couple of weeks later, when Christopher comes home and rolls his eyes at Eddie and Buck after they tell him they're together, merely giving them a slightly obnoxious finally! in that patented teenage tone before heading to his room to set up his gaming station and settle back in, like he'd never even been away.  

Oh, and in case anyone were to wonder, Eddie would have to admit that he really, really loves being the little spoon—almost as much as he and Buck love each other. 

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on ao3 HERE if you'd like to leave me a comment!

[destroyingangelneveragod]

Selling my Zine for Rent Funds

I will keep this short as I rambled a lot in past posts, one of which I think is shadowbanned, hence this post.

Due to unforseen circumstances this month has been far more expensive than planned. I need to make 37.53 each day in zine sales to make rent.

About me: We are severely chronically ill, a system, neurodivergent, and a bigender lesbian. We work doing freelance research and consulting on projects in the non-profit industrial complex on Madness, addiction, homelessness and chronic pain and they tend to be slower at paying than one would like. We write poetry, make zines and do art and sell some of it to make ends meet as we have a good number of medical treatments and supports that would help or do that are not covered by ohip and add to cost of living.