#and as a man i love seeing him be vulnerable about his own body dysmorphia and his disordered eating...

[uncanny-tranny]

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Transcript:

If you hate your body, do not achieve the body you want out of hate.

I know what you're thinking: starve yourself, run yourself into the ground, faster cardio, no carbs, no sugar.

You're reaching a perceived level of health at the expense of your actual health. If you expedite the process without doing the internal work, you're fucked. Now, I know there's some people who are finally happy and, uh, thinner body and I'm not talking to you, okay? Please, separate yourself from the equation and listen to what I'm saying.

It is so much more rewarding if you just improve your lifestyle. I just got my 10,000 steps on this beautiful day. I didn't do it to burn calories, I did it because I get to. I'm gonna go train legs now, I fucking love squatting and deadlifting! I love being strong! I have more time today, so I'm gonna take my time to cook a delicious, nutritious lunch. I'm not grinding, I'm not fasting, I'm not just having protein. I'm not doing burpees in-between my sets.

When you do this from an extreme standpoint, you're abandoning your quality of life. Therefore, you'll be more resentful. And because you're so resentful, you'll constantly be looking for validation, and it will never be good enough, and you'll be chasing a body that's impossible to reach 'cause your standards are too high. Just chase health! It's so much more rewarding, and you don't have to answer to fucking anybody!

[pure-kirarin]

Silvers Rayleigh x f! insecure reader (tw)

A/N: Please someone make gifs with young Rayleigh from today’s episode. I beg you. So okay, this is a young rayleigh x reader because the ep made me thirst for him... Enjoy :B LOVE YOURSELF everyone. Have some Rayleigh wisdom your way~ 

Warning: body dysmorphia / VERY sweet Rayleigh 

-------------------------

« I am sorry. I don't feel like it tonight. »

You say as you push Rayleigh gently away from you. You were sitting on his lap and things were taking a rather interesting turn. However, when his hand slid gently under your sweatshirt, you begun to feel self consciousness crawl into your head. The damn dark thoughts erupted in your brain like dark fog, stopping you from thinking straight.

Don't think. Don't think. Don't think.

You try to suppress the thoughts, of how unworthy you are to be with such a good-looking man. Of how disgusting and sorry you feel. Guilty for your own existence, sorry that he has to be with someone like you, as if he haven’t chose you, as if he didn't see the beauty within you.

All logic has left your destructive mind. A strong desire to run away and hide under the sheets stroke you. You refused opening up about this, you didn't want to seem like an annoyance or an unconfident little girl in front of him.

He was much older than you, much more experienced. He must have known all types of women. He could have any of them at the snap of his fingers. Why were you the one for him ? What was it that he saw in you ?

« -(Y/N), are you okay ?  he frowns, taking off his hand immediately.

-I am sorry, I-I don't feel my best. »

You look away, you didn't want to see his handsome face, it only made you feel worse. You felt self-conscious, as if he had never touched you before. You instinctively wrapped your arms around your upper-body, muscles clenching. When you try to jerk away from his lap, his arm held you firmly, pulling you closer to him.

Irises in irises, your face was just a breath away from his. You were frightened that he might see the distress in your eyes and feel your insecurity. You weren't comfortable yet sharing that vulnerable side of you. He was good, too good, and you didn't want to show him that weakness. Your eyes sway back and forth, unsure where to look while his narrowed. His voice came, assertive.

-Anything you need to tell me ?

It wasn't really a question but rather an order. He knew something was wrong, you felt naked under his piercing gaze. There is no way to hide anything from a man like him. Your lips parted, trying to say something. You hesitated then just said ;

-Nothing. I'm just not in the mood. 

-Don't lie to me, (Y/N). You can tell me anything. His voice was now nothing but a whisper. Trust me.

He puts a strand of hair behind your ear and says ;

-What's bothering my princess ?

That nickname out of his lips sounded like a magical spell, making you relax instantly, trust him more. You were the one he chose. Even in this moment, he considered you as his princess. You drown your head in his neck, unable to face him. Your hands start to play nervously with the fabric of his shirt.

Rayleigh started stroking your back gently, as if he was inviting you to open up and to drop the defenses. His steady breathing, delicate feel and distinct fragrance were soothing and pacifying your soul. You burried your nose in his blond locks, inhaling the fern and incense mix with every breath.

-You're too good for me...Rayleigh...I feel ugly and...Unworthy of you...I hate the way my body looks and feels...I feel so sorry that you have to be with me...

You couldn't help but feel some tears start pearling in the corner of your eyes, leaving wet areolas on flowery-printed shirt. You sighed and mumbled in an almost inaudible voice, full of shame ;

-These last days I just feel so terrible about myself. I feel trapped in this body. I don't like looking at it. I feel ashamed. I feel disgusted. I feel like I don't deserve to be loved, let alone loved by someone like you. You are strong...You say as you tug on the fabric of his shirt -You are handsome and you are popular around girls...What are you doing with someone like me, Rayleigh ?

As an answer to your soft sobs, Rayleigh can't help but laugh. No, it wasn't a mocking laugh at all. It was one of disbelief, an endearing one. He laughed like he was faced with a kid saying nonsense. Or more like he knew too well what you were feeling. Your cheeks were now flushed out of embarrassment. You didn't understand his reaction at first. Was he...Laughing at you ? You straighten out your neck now looking into his ebony orb.

He wipes out a tear off your cheek with his thumb and spoke ;

« -Sometimes I forget the age difference between us. But here you remind me of it. There is no need for you to feel this way, little fawn, you are stunning. Here. »

To your surprise, he gets up from the chair you were both sitting on. You hold on to him pretty tight so you don't fall, unsure about what he is about to do. He goes in front of the big mirror that was in the corner of his cabine. You reach out for the floor.

«-Take a good look. You are gorgeous. »

He positions himself behind you and envelops you in his arms. His lips start laying silky kisses on your skin, making you embarrassed. The sight made you feel embarrassed and uncomfortable.

« -This is the girl I am in love with. Every part of you just drives me insane. You are a young woman, still blind to your own charm. So I need to show it to you. »

His reaction was unexpected and turned you into a blushing mess. He puts his hands on your shoulders ;

« I want you to look at yourself everyday and remember that you are in one hand, and that all the other women in the world are in another. 

-Wow...Rayleigh... »

Your eyes widened and you felt your heart drop as he said these word in a voice so suave that it felt indecent. You didn't know that the man was so good with words. He caught you offgard.

«-Don't say such thiings. » You whine, hiding your face in embarrasment, turning around and hiding your face on his chest.  « It's embarrassing. »

« Well, since you don't know your worth, I will have to remind you everyday till you never forget about it. »

[mandoalorian]

Loving You For You [Maxwell Lord x GN!Reader]

Summary: Maxwell Lord is struck with a panic attack when he's getting ready to shoot one of his famous infomercials. He's hit with the trauma of his youth and begins to spiral, until you, his loving partner, show him that it's okay to feel afraid and it's okay to find admittance in his struggles.

Warnings: descriptions of poverty, starvation, body dysmorphia, panic attack, general insecurity, brief mention of addiction (alcohol and gambling), brief mention of abuse.

Rating: PG-13

Word count: 2000>

Author's note: So many of you loved 'Perfect to Me', which was about a reader who had their own body dysmorphia (you can find it in my Masterlist under ‘Maxwell Lord’, and asked me to write more. I put a little twist on things and wrote this, a one-shot in which Maxwell suffers from body dysmorphia and struggles to leave his past behind him. Reader discretion advised.

Masterlist

When Maxwell Lorenzano was 6 years old, he owned one pair of shorts and two t-shirts. He had no choice but to wear them throughout the coldest winter in history, his knees red raw from the cold, and they lasted him for two years until he quite literally was growing out of them. When he finally parted with them, his mother gifted him with a dark blue knitted sweater, and Maxwell swore it was the best present he'd ever received. He'd finally feel the warmth he craved so desperately. The warmth that other children got from their parents embrace...he was getting from an itchy sweater that smelt like cheap beer and cigarettes. But it was his, and it was all he had.

After Maxwell's father stole all of the money for his gambling and alcohol addiction, he left Mrs Lorenzano with just five pesetas to feed the small family for a week. The brown eyed boy remembered that winter as the worst one yet. The bedwetting had gotten bad again and he had never gone so hungry. He remembered his stomach rumbling in class and his cheeks would flush as the other kids teased and laughed at him for it. He remembered stealing a banana from another kid's packed lunch, getting caught, and told that if he continued to steal, he'd be nothing but a criminal low-life just like his father. But he was just hungry. His shoes had holes in them so his toes poked out. He bathed in a tin bucket once a week right up until he was a teenager.

And thirty years later, Maxwell Lorenzano, or Lord, as he now went by, was staring at himself in the full length bedroom mirror. Everything was perfect. He'd proved everyone back home wrong. He became someone. Someone esteemed, someone important and someone with a heightened self worth. People asked for his autograph in the street and preached to him about their love and admiration for his work. He was a man who could make dreams come true. Everything was perfect… or so it should've been.

It didn't fit. Maxwell picked at the way the pale pink polo shirt clung to his body. He turned to the side and sighed when he saw the way it highlighted his little tummy. He sucked in his breath, trying to flatten it, but it didn't really work. And for a split second he considered how many meals it would take to lose that little bit of weight. This whole outfit had been tailored for him just two weeks ago and it was perfect but now he hated it. He didn't just hate it. He felt disgusting.

It was weird. Sure his insecurity about his body image was rampant as he took in his appearance, but he didn't feel like himself.

Truthfully, when he changed his name from Lorenzano to Lord he had done it to start anew. That name was his father's and he wanted no association with the man who had abused and tormented him and his mother. But when Maxwell Lorenzano became Max Lord, it was like the struggle ended. He'd fought for so long and so hard trying to fit in with the modern-day example of a successful businessman. He was the least American all-American man. He dyed his hair blonde, even seeked a vocal coach to try and rid himself of his accent. And it worked. Everything was being handed to him on a silver plate. He was the coverboy of Forbes, the owner of three country clubs and day spas across America. The Wall Street Journal were constantly on his case, wanting to interview him. He was swimming in cash. He had everything he could ever want. But it wasn't him.

He felt like a fraud. A liar. A con-man. And as he looked at his reflection in the mirror, he saw nothing but the broken little boy he was thirty years ago, wearing ill-fitted clothes and a fake smile. It wasn't meant to be like this. He was spiralling.

"Hey honey?" he heard your sweet voice call from the next room, your footsteps approaching down the corridor. His tense composure relaxed ever so slightly when he heard you coming, and he grabbed the white suit jacket from the top of the dresser, quickly pulling it over him. He didn't want you to see him like this. See his tummy and the way the stupid shirt didn't fit him the way it did two weeks ago. You'd seen him naked plenty of times and deep down Maxwell knew that you wouldn't care, but he just felt so vulnerable in his own skin. "The camera crew are waiting downstairs in the lobby and they're getting antsy," you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration as you padded into the bedroom. "The director is insufferable, Max. I keep telling him this is your infomercial, not his, but he just-- hey, Max? Are you listening?" you narrowed your eyes with concern. Maxwell hadn't looked at you once since you walked into the room.

"Hmph? Oh yeah." he murmured, turning back around to see if his tummy poked out even wearing the white jacket over the shirt. It didn't, which was a relief for him, but the padded shoulders of the jacket made him look huge and boxy. And it was just another thing he began to hate about himself.

"Are you okay?" you asked, biting your lip and walking towards him. You wrapped your arms around his waist and placed your hands over his tummy. He winced. "Max?"

"Yeah I'm fine." he said quickly, pulling out of your grip and buttoning up the suit jacket.

As he was about to leave the bedroom to start shooting the latest infomercial for his company, Black Gold Cooperative, you grabbed his arm and pulled him back. You popped open to the button of his suit jacket, freeing his tummy, not that you noticed. "You should keep the jacket undone," you hummed. "I like you in pink." You placed the palm of your hand on his chest and subconsciously began to brush him down, straightening his collar so he looked as smart as possible.

"I might get changed. Don't really like this outfit." Max muttered with a frown that made your heart ache.

"Wh-what? You loved it when you tried it on for me at the tailors the other week. And you look so good. Is there something going on?" you asked curiously as Maxwell stepped away from you.

He sighed in defeat (and slight frustration), before ripping the jacket off his body and letting it pool to the ground. "Look." he said, pointing his finger aimlessly at his tummy.

"What?" you asked, genuinely bewildered.

"Look." he repeated again, wiggling his ring clad finger this time.

"Maxie you gotta help me out here," you replied. "What am I looking at?" You noticed Maxwell's lips begin to quiver and tears prick his dark glazed eyes. He swallowed a lump in his throat that he didn't realise he had before slapping his hand over his face in shame and breaking down into a heaving, sobbing mess. "Oh Max," you cooed, taking him in your arms and guiding him over to your bed. You sat him down on slid next to him, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him into your chest. "Baby what is it? You can talk to me."

"Nothing fits," he hiccuped, and you felt his tears dampen your own blouse. "I feel disgusting. I feel fake and. Disgusting. It fit two weeks ago- and now-"

"Max," you hushed him, running your fingers through his golden locks of hair. "It fits you perfectly. You look amazing, and I'm not just saying that because I'm your partner, I'm saying it because it really truly does. You look so handsome." you promised him.

"When I look in the mirror all I see is the old me. The me who wet the bed, who starved and stole and who couldn't save my mother from my father's horror and abuse. I moved here to escape it all, but it still haunts me. It follows me and I can't- I just want it to stop." Maxwell confessed, the tears now streaming down his face.

You had dated Max Lord for three years now, and you were both deeply in love with each other, but he had never quite opened up to you about his past trauma. You knew little things here and there but you never expected it to be so bad. Your boyfriend was suffering and you felt so helpless.

"I hate myself." he continued through a choked sob. He began to feel so constricted in his clothes, tugging his pink shirt. It felt like he couldn't breathe, and you saw the panic on his face.

"Hey, breathe with me. Let me help you." you whispered, cupping his face with your hand and wiping away his tears. He found himself subconsciously leaning into your touch and he followed your breathing. Inhale for seven seconds and then exhale. And repeat. It was working. As he followed your breathing, you gently began to undress him and as you discarded the garments of clothing he began to feel better.

Leaving him on the bed, you promised you'd be back in one second, quickly darting into the walk-in closet and bringing out some of his comfiest cashmere pyjamas.

"I- I can't," Maxwell panted. "I have to shoot the- the infomercial."

You shook your head, unfolding the pyjamas. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, okay? This is your infomercial. Not anyone else's."

"I can't let them down." Maxwell insisted, looking back at the clothes that were pooled on the floor. He had to be brave. For once he had to be brave.

"No," you said sternly. Maxwell looked at you with doe eyes. "I want you to change and get into bed. I'll be back in one minute, I'm just going to let the crew and the director know that we'll do this another day."

"Yeah but-" As always, Maxwell Lord was the most stubborn man on the planet. "I can do it. I can- I can-"

"Sweetheart," you whispered, planting a kiss on his forehead. "There's no shame in admitting when you can't do something. No shame in struggling. I love you all the same."

"You aren't embarrassed of me?" he sniffed wearily.

"How could I be? I feel like the luckiest person on the planet because I scored with you. You're the most amazing, gentle, compassionate guy I have ever met. Max, I wish the rest of the world got to see you the way I see you. You are perfect." you smiled and Maxwell felt his cheeks flush pink.

"I love you so much." he confessed, and you giggled, leaning in to brush your lips against his.

"I love you too," you smiled warmly, nudging your nose against his. "Get comfortable and I'll dismiss the crew. I'll bring a VHS up and we can watch a movie in bed too. Anything you fancy?"

Maxwell pondered for a second, trying to remember his wide selection of filmography he kept in one of the living room cabinets. He could always go with one of his favourites— a guilty pleasure he liked to indulge in when he craved comfort. "Breakfast at Tiffany's?" he asked with a hopeful glint in his eye.

"Oh yes, we haven't watched that one in a while! I'll make us both some herbal tea too," you exclaimed, handing him a comb so he could brush out all the hair product and reveal his natural waves. "We've been needing a movie day." you commented.

"Let's not do anything," Maxwell grinned. "For once. Let's just relax and cuddle and watch movies."

"I can't think of anything better." you smiled cheerily, pinching his cheek and giving him another kiss.

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[depressedkakashihatake-fics]

Mirror Mirror

Hatake Kakashi/Maito Gai\

2762 Words

Warnings: Mentions of Body Dysmorphia. Angst

Edited by: @mireleth

Revolting.

Keeping his eyes on the mirror in front of him, Kakashi struggled to keep his attention on the task at hand. He had a wound to stitch up, but no matter how hard he tried to focus his eyes always wandered. They continued to focus on the one part of his body that he hated. 

That one thing that didn’t belong.

Disgusting.

It felt like there were still eyes on him. People watching and wondering as he passed through with a hand clutched over his chest, pinning his Jonin jacket closed in a desperate attempt to hide himself away. To conceal that part of him he was always trying to forget about.

The one thing that he hated about his own body. 

Even his own students had found themselves staring, though a small part of him tried desperately to remind himself that Sakura and Naruto had tried to ask him if he needed them to do anything. Something that would help make him just a little less uncomfortable.

He had been too desperate to get home and disappear from sight to even bother with their question, turning his back to the pair and heading off while Tenzo took care of collecting their target’s body and leading the rest of the team to Konoha. 

His eyes scanned back down to the deep wound on his chest. It would have been smart to go to the hospital to have it taken care of, or just to stop for a bit and let Sakura help him out. She had the skills needed to heal his wound, and then he wouldn’t be standing in front of a mirror at this moment trying to do it all himself.

Then of course, if he had stopped to let Sakura heal him he would have had to sit there with his hands at his sides trying desperately to ignore the fact that his binder was broken and everyone could see his chest. It would be impossible to keep himself covered while Sakura was working, and he could barely handle the thought of Naruto, Sakura and Sai seeing him like that.

Having a full view of his chest without his binder in place to keep everything flat. The way he was supposed to look.

No, that wasn’t an option, and the hospital would have been even worse. He could usually convince them to get Tsunade-sama for situations like this, but if she wasn’t available he had no idea who he would get stuck with and that wasn’t a risk that he was willing to take. 

Getting yelled at by Sakura or Tsunade-sama was a risk he was going to have to take this time. It was better than the alternatives, at least in his eyes. 

Idiot.

His brain turned on him. Berated him for not getting this all fixed earlier so that he didn’t have to deal with these feelings anymore. So that he could look in the mirror and see the Hatake Kakashi that he was supposed to see, not a body that made him hate himself.

It was one simple surgery, why was he so afraid of going through with it? Why did his anxiety keep giving him mental images of all the ways he could die if he went in for just one surgery? 

Why were his hands shaking?

“Damn it!” Dropping the needle to the ground, he reached up and rubbed his eyes. Trying desperately to wrestle away the image that had burned itself into his mind. The one that he kept seeing in the mirror no matter how much he wished it would go away.

Repulsive. Sickening. Nauseating.

The words kept running through his head, repeating themselves over and over again like a record that never ended. 

One broken binder and here he was. Standing in front of his mirror wondering why he was born into a body he hated so much. Why he couldn’t have just been born with a body that made him comfortable in his own skin.

“Kakashi?” Gai’s voice broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present and the task he was supposed to be trying to accomplish. Stitching up his chest wound. Except now he had two things to worry about. If Gai was in his apartment he was looking for him, and if he saw him in his current binderless situation…

No, that wasn’t an option.

Doing a 180 degree turn, Kakashi bolted forward and attempted to close the bathroom door, cursing when Gai’s hand suddenly appeared between the door and the frame and stopped him from successfully locking himself into the washroom.

Now he was stuck. There was no way he was going to be able to force the door closed; Gai was stronger than him. If he really wanted to he could shove the door open and Kakashi would have no chance of fighting it. 

That meant he had to go with his backup plan. Scanning the room he located his towel and dived for it, managing to wrap it around his chest just before Gai stepped into the room.

“I see Yamato was right to send me.” Tenzo, of course. He had probably worried his friend when he ran off in front of the team, but Tenzo still had a mission report to give and would likely want to take the rest of the team out for dinner to celebrate a successful mission. So he sent the only other person that had a chance of getting him to talk. “He told me you were hit.”

“He’s worrying too much,” Kakashi deflected. “I’m fine, Gai. Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”

Gai ignored him and took a step forward, which wasn’t at all surprising. There was no-one in the leaf who knew when Kakashi was lying to them better than Maito Gai. 

“Show me.” A request. The chance for Kakashi to open up and let Gai see the damage. He didn’t. Tightening his grip on the towel he held it even closer to his body and ignored the spike of pain when it brushed against the open wound. 

Gai hadn’t missed the wince though. Kakashi could tell that much when he closed the distance between them and gently laid his hands over Kakashi’s, asking for permission once again.

“Fine.” Dropping his hands to the side, Kakashi allowed the towel to pool by his feet so that Gai could have a clear look at the wound. Now exposed, Kakashi felt even worse than he had earlier. 

Uncomfortable.

A feeling he didn’t usually experience when he was with Gai. Gai, who made him feel loved and desired. Who reminded him every day that they were together that he was handsome and perfect.

Gai, who had never had one bad thing to say about him in all of the time they had known each other, even when he had every right to hate him. 

Standing there in front of the man he loved more than anything in the world. Who had seen him naked on multiple occasions when they made love, or even just when Gai managed to convince him to take his binder off for the night. He was uncomfortable having those beautiful eyes on him for the first time in years, and he hated it.

He wanted so desperately to cover up. Hide his body away from Gai and act like nothing was wrong, but he couldn’t. Gai had already seen the wound. His eyes were glued to the deep, bloody gash that Kakashi had only gotten partway through stitching before his mind had gotten the better of him and he’d stopped. 

“You should have gone to the hospital.” It was an observation rather than a scolding. “If this isn’t healed properly it could get infected.”

“I cleaned it.” A poor attempt to defend himself, but Kakashi knew he wasn’t on very stable ground regardless of how he approached the argument. He should have gone to the hospital, but for a man who was regarded as a tactical genius, he was so stupid when it came to his own health. The thought of anyone else seeing him made his skin crawl. Unwelcomed eyes examining a body he hated, judging him silently because no one was brave enough to say what they were thinking out loud.

Not if they wanted to live. 

Gai didn’t argue. Instead he searched the room for the needle that Kakashi had been using to stitch his wound. When he spotted it on the floor in front of the sink, he made his way over and knelt down to pick it up. Once it was in hand, Gai stood up again and carefully laid it down on top of Kakashi’s bathroom sink before turning to the first aid kit sitting open on the edge of his bathtub. 

Two needles. Every kit had two needles just in case, both wrapped up and kept sterile for immediate use. Thankfully Kakashi had only used the one he had just dropped since getting hit kit refilled after running out of too many things. It didn’t take Gai long to locate the second needle in his kit, making his way back over to him as he carefully peeled away the protective layer that kept it sterilized and started to thread some new thread through it. 

Kakashi could already hear the things Gai was going to say to him. How he was ‘the most handsome man in all of Konoha’ and how Gai ‘loved him no matter what.’

It didn’t make it any easier. It was nice to hear, of course. He liked knowing that Gai wasn’t going to leave him because of something he had no control over, but it didn’t take away the disgust when he looked at himself in the mirror.

No amount of kind words could make him feel like there wasn’t something wrong. Not when his mind screamed at him everytime he took off his binder. He hated his chest. It was revolting.

Out of place.

It didn’t belong to his body.

“You know, you could always get top surgery,” Gai’s voice cut through the silence. It would be a lie to say that he had never thought of that option, but there were so many factors to consider. The most important one being that he wasn’t comfortable being put under for any surgery at all. It left him vulnerable and exposed, a dangerous situation for any shinobi to be in. “It would make you feel better. I hate…”

Seeing you like this.

Knowing that you’re uncomfortable.

Nothing Kakashi hadn’t heard from his boyfriend before. They’d had these conversations a few times, though thankfully they usually only lasted a few minutes before Gai just gathered him into his arms and held on until Kakashi was feeling a little better.

A few minutes, a couple of hours. How long they stayed cuddled up on the floor depended on how bad his dysphoria was that day.

“You know how I feel about that.” Maybe one day. When things weren’t so hectic and he could actually afford the time off he’d need to recover, and when Gai could be there with him. If not Gai, at least Yamato. Someone he trusted to have his back while he was out cold. Until then, he’d suffer. Tsunade-sama wasn’t able to give him that amount of time off. Not when everything was going to shit all around them. She needed all hands on deck, and it had been like that almost all of his life. 

“It’s an option,” Gai offered, making his way back over to his side and holding the needle up. “If we sit down on the floor, I can finish for you.”

Taking the offer, Kakashi sat down right where he was and watched as Gai followed suit. As soon as they were both seated comfortably, Gai continued where Kakashi had left off, frowning when Kakashi’s first reaction was a wince as the needle pierced his skin.

“No, I didn’t take anything,” Kakashi answered before Gai could even ask the question. “Was in too much of a rush.”

Giving his head a shake Gai continued anyway. Both of them had been forced to stitch their wounds without any pain killers countless times before, so this was nothing new. It just wasn’t usually a preferred course of action.

“You know what I love?” Kakashi diverted his eyes. It was obvious where Gai was going with this and he wasn’t sure it was something that he wanted to hear. “Your smile.”

Placing his hands over his ankles, Kakashi stared down at the ground and tried his best not to pull away when the needle pierced his skin again.

“I also love your hair. And the little lines around your eyes when you close them.” For the first time in hours Kakashi could feel a small smile tugging at the side of his lips. “But I think my favourite thing about you has to be your kiss.”

As he said it, Gai leaned in to steal a quick kiss, careful to keep his hands steady so he didn’t pierce Kakashi with the needle anywhere it wasn’t supposed to go. Settling his hands on Gai’s chest, Kakashi twisted his fingers into soft green fabric and held him for just a second longer. Holding onto the sweet taste of Gai’s kiss just a moment longer before finally releasing his grip on his jumpsuit.

“Why are you like this,” he grumbled under his breath. “How can you love me when I look…”

Wrong.

Gai just smiled. Kakashi already knew the answer he would give; it was always the same.

Because you’re Kakashi. You’re perfect.

Kakashi never believed him. How could he when he couldn’t look at himself in the mirror without feeling disgusted by the man he saw staring back at him. Still, Gai was here. He had always stayed by his side no matter what, helping him pick out new binders as he grew. Standing by his side the first time he bought himself a packer. Even holding his hand when Tsunade-sama gave him his first testosterone shot, and celebrating for a bit when Kakashi started to grow a beard before promptly telling him to shave it off because it was too scratchy for kisses.

“I just…” The words refused to come up. How was he supposed to describe how it made him feel? Gai would be horrified. He always worked so hard to help Kakashi see himself in a brighter light. To combat the depression that Kakashi had been dealing with since he was five, in any small way that he could.

How was he supposed to tell Gai that he hated anything about his own body, when Gai loved everything about him so deeply and passionately?

“Kakashi,” another weave of the needle through his skin as Gai spoke up, “I know this is hard for you. I can see the way you look at yourself in the mirror after you spend the night with me, and how you squirm away from me when I convince you to take off your binder at my place. I know you don’t like it.”

Gai was right. Of course he was right, but it didn’t change the fact that Kakashi had missions to do and his own fears with being put under for surgery. Even if he could get the necessary time off to get top surgery, which seemed highly unlikely, he’d be alone. No one to watch over him while he was unconscious. Tenzo and Gai would both have to cover for the missions he couldn’t do while he was getting the surgery and recovering. He’d be alone.

He hated the thought of being alone and vulnerable, even in Konoha.  

Disgusting. Revolting. Nauseating.

Over and over again until something else caught his attention just for a moment. Long enough for him to realize the time and rush to shower and finish dressing before stumbling out the door to start his day.

“When you’re ready we’ll get it fixed.” He didn’t need an explanation. It was clear that Gai was talking about him finally getting top surgery. It was the only way to really fix the problem after all. “Until then…”

Gai’s eyes scanned back down to his chest, and his fingers continued to work on stitching up the wound that had led to all of these problems in the first place.

“Well, until then I’ll just have to keep reminding you of how much I love you.”

At least there was something good to look forward to. He could handle that.

[highsviolets]

like real people do, chapter one: obi-wan x handmaiden!reader

summary: in which you and obi-wan stumble into each other’s acquaintance through accidents of honor and pleasure

word count: 3k-ish

cw: brief, brief allusion to body dysmorphia in first paragraph after part one (a). 

A/N: WOW it’s finally here!!! my handmaiden x obi fic!! my first multi chapter!!  anon you are so patient. thank you for bearing with me as i developed this concept and finally got words onto paper. This lil chapter takes place at the beginning of AOTC and sets the scene for all sorts of shenanigans. pls be gentle folkx i am v nervous i hope you love these idiots honorable humans as much as i do. 

*if this is your gif pls lmk!* 

like real people do, a fic by corellians-only 

prologue

Glamor. Satin. Hapan wine and curtseys and a diplomatic accent polishing over your country roots and the knife strapped to your thigh and a propensity to linger in shadows. This is your life, as handmaiden to Senator Padm�� Amidala. This is your duty.

Grime. Sweat. Clone armies and custom armour and a commission muddling the balance of peace and deep-rooted affection and unwavering devotion to the Jedi Order. This is Obi-wan’s life, as High General of the Republic. This is his duty.

You meet before the chaos erupts, though, before it spills over the senate security and the temple’s walls and starts incinerating the foundations of life itself.

You meet before the chaos erupts, but your acquaintance is tangled with its aching tendrils. You do not see each other, at first. So many things are in the way. But slowly, gently, acquaintance forms into friend forms into companion forms into lover over cups of tea and night watches and snatched moments of vulnerability in a world that is determined to wrest your soul from your body. Armor and silk and robes are stripped away; duties that once swathed you tightly become more gentle. When you are together it is just you and him, but when you are in the world you are handmaiden and he is general.

But we are getting ahead of ourselves: let us go back to the beginning, when the wholeness was yet separate. Let us go back to the beginning, and meet ourselves anew. Let us go back to the beginning, where everything divines its purpose.

part one (a)

Shimmersilk voile glistens as you turn in the mirror. The tender glow of artificial sun lamps is enraptured by the diaphanous weave, and its metallic threads gleam under such ministrations. It’s a dress that drips with regality. A sense of noblesse oblige seems to ooze from every swish of the cape flowing from your cap sleeves, and you sigh. The act is heavy, and the cape grumbles as your shoulders heave with the motion. Brilliant flickers of gold and silver mock you as you continue to shift from side to side, scrutinizing your body from each angle. Another sigh leaves escapes through your nose, but this one is softer, gentler, more like the gossamer that now encloses you — more like the woman you been trained to be. You will never be as petite or slight as the Senator, but that, you observe, wrangling to adjust one final hairpin into your headpiece, was never quite the point. Your job is to stand in for her ladyship: not to assume her person.

The offending hairpin proves obstinate. You surrender to the cause and submit yourself to an evening of faint wisps of curled hair framing your face. Wisps of hair are too spontaneous. You must be crisp, but it is not about what you want — not in these petty, mundane expressions of living.  

While you have been doing battle a figure has entered the room. It’s one of the Senator’s new Jedi protectors, if the robes are any indication. Without fanfare he approaches you and plucks the pin from your fingers, like he is intimately acquainted with such things and communes with them on a daily basis. Gentle fingers — though, the bruised knuckles tell you they are not immune to struggling against life’s grip — smooth the hair at the crown of your head before he slips the pin into its rightful place, nudging into the golden circlet now held secure. The sleeve of his robe caresses your cheek, obscuring your vision, and you feel with your , rather than see, all of this occur.

“All of this” happens without sound, without breathing almost, as though the two of you have entered a vacuum that warps both space and time and sound.

The man takes a step back and paints himself with an apologetic smile, clasping his hands together in the privacy of his robe and offering you a half-bow.

“I apologize for the liberty, your ladyship.” The Jedi’s voice is precise. “I do hope I wasn’t too forward.” He announces every syllable, acknowledges every idiosyncratic whimsy, each grammatical proclamation.

You meet his gaze in the mirror, and despite the shadows casting about, you can detect the openness, the earnestness of his gaze. He holds no tension in his face, or anywhere else in his body, for that matter. It has been a long while since you have seen someone so at peace. Perhaps, hidden under the cloak, his fingers are grasping at themselves, trying to be rid of the vestiges of forbidden touches.

A half-smile graces your painted lips and you incline your head. The movement cuts but a short arc in the air’s currents, just as you have been taught. “It is no matter.” You toy with the idea of letting him continue to believe you are Padmé, the thought careening through your mind like a model airspeeder run amok. You let the thought crash. It is above you to engage in such petty games, you decide. Padmé would not do it, and it is your job to act as she does. Besides, the Jedi would know, wouldn’t he? Can’t they read minds with the Force? That’s what fisherman in your village used to say when you would let your feet dangle off the docks and graze the surface of the water and watch the boats come in with the day’s catch.

So you turn, then, the cape twisting behind you, and address him face-to-face. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Master Jedi.” You gesture to your twinkling gown. “I am not the Senator.” You catch the tail end of his frown as you avert your gaze, fixating on some unseen object just out of sight. “I am but one of her ladyship’s handmaidens.” You hear the clipped tone of your voice, the way every word is measured like cups of flour, like the yards of fabric for this dress, and you think you hate it, but you cannot tell.

“Oh, I am sorry.” The apology is sincere and bookmarked with amusement, and he rocks back on his heels. It seems he is laughing at his own mistake. “I must however, inquire after the whereabouts of her ladyship. The council has requested that my padawan and I escort her to this evening’s function.” The Jedi’s hands drop to his sides and the robes that shield them follow.

“I’m afraid the Senator has already departed,” you say, making for the exit. The Jedi matches your stride. “She left with another Jedi some twenty standard minutes ago. I presume it was your padawan, Master Jedi?”

“Blast!” he murmurs, but you hear his swearing and duck your head to hide your grin. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes again, throwing a glance your way. “I’m afraid my padawan has a mind of his own.”

“I think the Senator and your padawan will get along famously, then,” you remark wryly. You have reached the landing pad and are about to bid him a good evening when he climbs into the shuttle and extends a hand to guide you.

“May I be of assistance?”

Skin meets skin for the second time that evening. At this rate you will be more acquainted with his body than your own, and as you sense his muscles grow taut when you shift your weight to board, an unfamiliar sensation embeds itself among the metallic threads. It feels like when you have to receive the Chancellor when Padmé is away on business, or when you act as decoy traveling to and from Theed, but more subtle, more inviting.

“Thank you, Master Jedi.” Skin breathes on skin for one, two heartbeats and then the contact withers and he drops your hand.

A silence nestles over the two of you as the pilot races you over to the function. It persists as he helps you exit the shuttle and delicately rearranges your cape, ensuring the shimmersilk is matches the beams of fractured stars.

Obi-wan does not know why he does this; he does not understand why he feels the nudging of the Force to offer his arm like he is a chivalrous courtier, but he obeys. It is his duty to obey the will of the Force, so he does.

part one (b)

The function teems with lifeforms, and each one spars for attention. They are wrapped in chiffon and decked in damask robes and fine crystals compete for light so they can shine that much brighter. It’s some gala ostensibly designed to raise credits for a struggling cause, and it is like all the rest. A pathetic excuse for most Senators to say they are dedicated to more than greed.

To you, it reeks of Coruscanti power; to him, it stinks of politics.

The Jedi Master spots the Senator and her Jedi protector before you do, and he steers you in their directly, swiftly sidestepping curious glances and intoxicated beings. You manage to snag a glass of something from a passing tray.

He bows again, deeply. His hair seems to blend in with the crowd — it is copper and gold and refined.

“My lady,” he intones, and his voice sparkles like the gem-encrusted champagne flute in Padmé’s hand.

“It’s lovely to see you again, Master Kenobi.” She looks up at the gangly teenager by her side. Rich chocolate and licorice colored robes complement the Senator’s wine-colored gown. It’s a striking image, despite the youth’s awkwardness, here in the blurry illumination of the cavernous room.  

Padmé breaks into a full smile as she spots you lingering at Kenobi’s side. “I see you’ve met my handmaiden.”

“I suppose I have,” he says, examining you anew, “although I’m afraid introductions got swept away in the excitement.”

You think he sounds as unaffected by “the excitement" as one could possibly be, and the duplicity gnaws on your gentility.

You sip while Padmé sweeps together strands of lore about your service, about your loyalty, about your selflessness. The beverage is sweet and sparkling, rather like your gown, and like your dress, it feels sticky and cloying and altogether fake for something that tries so hard to be real. But you smile and nod and once more his skin melts into yours as he shakes your hand.

“The honor,” he says in that voice colored with melody, “is all mine.” You look into his cerulean eyes and wish, dimly, in that part of your brain untouched by starlight, that he had said pleasure.

Padmé’s eyes flicker between you and him, but the moment has passed. She pulls you away, citing the need for diplomatic business and brushes aside her escorts with a firmness she seems to have possessed since birth.

The pair of you wander through the crowd. You are always one step behind, always letting her be the first person they see. She is wearing her favorite designer tonight, and you wonder, taking another sip as she holds court with Bail Organa, why she has commissioned such a work of art for tonight’s event.

Like yourself, the Senator has opted for airy materials matched with splendor. And yet, her garb lacks your ethereality: the deep burgundy smacks of something firmly rooted in rich soil even as you strain heavenward. Tulle and satin are artfully draped over her lithe form, and beaded crystals cover her from head to toe. An open back reveals creamy skin. More than one being in the hall has dragged their eyes over the Senator’s body, straining to glimpse more, more, more, in the dim light.

The Senator pays them no mind. When she concludes her business with Organa, she refreshes her glass, and yours, and tucks you in her side. You begin to walk. It is an aimless thing, but not purposeful — now is when you see who is here, and who is not, who is watching, who pretends to look away, and who slips out unnoticed.

“How did you meet Master Kenobi?” you ask.

“Oh, it was years ago.” Padmé drinks. “I was still Queen at the time.”

“And?” Back in those days, she had retained at least a dozen of Naboo’s finest young women. Now, it’s just you and few others.

“And that was when we met,” she announces. “He’s very famous, you know. So is his padawan, Anakin Skywalker. They’ve protected at least half the galaxy.”

Confusion contorts your features, carving rivers in your forehead. “I’ve never heard of them.”

Padmé laughs, but the expression is faint, almost undetectable. Senators do not typically jest with their bodyguards. “That’s because you think anyone who reports on the Jedi is a gossip-mongering snob and you refuse to read anything about them.” She squeezes your arm and drops her voice to a whisper. “Don’t know know they’re the ones who write all the good stuff?”

“All…the good stuff,” you echo, voice flat and uncomprehending.

Padmé simply rolls her eyes and resume her stride. “They’re in charge of my security now, with Captain Typho. I expect that you’ll be working closing with Master Kenobi. Please help him fulfill his mandate from the Council in anyway you can.”

The mere suggestion of working with that man twists your insides. It’s the same feeling from earlier, swirling and basing into unease. Work with a Jedi? A famous one? The ache anxiety you are used to. It is familiar and it is your unwelcome companion but you have made peace with each other. This — this is something new. This is a grinding jaw and a drawbridge heart and hot and cold dueling for dominance in your stomach and something so strangely akin to anger. You drink more champagne to mask the disconcerting sensation.

part one (c)

The Senator is being pulled away, now, to a group of prominent Senators to discuss the new child labor protection regulations. She does her job and you do yours, melting into the shadows, embracing them, keeping eyes on all those who gather near to your mistress.

Master Kenobi’s sudden appearance at your side does not surprise you, though perhaps it should.

“Are you quite sure you’re able to keep watch on her ladyship from this distance?” His words are no longer melodic. They come to your ears dry and flinty, the way rocks feel without the rain to abate their constancy.

“Quite.” You fail to elaborate because there is simply nothing more to say.

“Your disguise is quite effective. You must pass along my compliments to Captain Typho and the rest of the security team.” He tries again, but you refuse to be endeared. He is stubborn, just like you — he resists being broken down by your cool acidity.

“Thank you, Master Kenobi.” You finally meet his gaze. “I was worried it would be too intricate, but the Senator assured me I had selected the perfect piece. It’s just enough like her for people to not look twice.”

“You engineered this?” Master Kenobi’s body is static, but his face swells with vivacity. A minuscule gesture to the left, an arching eyebrow, a corner of his mouth quirks upwards, ascending to meet his eyes.

“It’s my job,” you return, but the pH of your tone has neutralized somewhat. You are uncomfortable, so you try to tease him. “Maybe one day I can show you how to use all the weapons I have under this gown, and you will believe I can do my job.”

You regret the tawdry joke immediately when he shifts and looks away. “I’m sorry I’ve offended you, my lady.” Master Kenobi analyzes you, then the Senator, and sighs heavily. “I see you have everything well in hand. I shall bid you good evening, then, my lady.” He bows and exits in a boiling mass of robes, his padawan not far behind. Anakin Skywalker lingers on the threshold, gazing into the crowd, eyes frantic, but his Master beckons and he follows obediently.

part one (d)

It is not until early morning, during that brief moment between night and dawn, that you are able to think clearly about the strange feeling gurgling in your chest.

You think of Master Kenobi and his sentimental hair and the caramel of his accent. You wonder about his hands grazing yours, how your fingers curled so naturally around his, the ghost of fingertips in your hair. You consider his attempts at gallantry, at his fealty to his duty, to Padmé embrace of his presence and her lavish praise.

And you ask yourself what would it have been like, if he were just a boy, and you were just a girl, and maybe if he had danced with you he could have respected you more, and maybe if you had been less defensive he would have been more contrite, and you laugh at yourself.

Silly girl, you think as sleep nibbles at your vision. Those are not our kind of dreams.

tbc.

[persephonewing]

Choosing a New Name for a Truer Body: Introducing Persephone

After coming out as a Transgender Woman a few days ago, nothing has really felt the same. Or, in more positive terms, everything is feeling more real. I’m openly talking about being and feeling like a woman. How my gender dysphoria has confused and harmed me for the past twenty one years and all the many transitions (Socially, culturally, physically) that will and are currently happening to me. 

Upon this, just yesterday, me and one my best friends, Emma, were swimming at a nearby lake here at Eastern Washington University. We had been playing around with names. For a moment I was dead set on the name Camilla. It had a C in it, like my boy name so it felt familiar. It allowed me to feel comfortable, passable, and like a cis-woman. A simple name that no one would question, look at, or invalidate. In a way, the name Camilla itself made me feel like it would protect me from the cis, straight world but as all trans women come to know, I would never be accepted there. A fate Persephone came to understand too.

I expressed this to Emma on the trip. How I wanted to find a name. A name that really encompassed my story, my truth, and my unwavering love and comfortability in womanhood.

 Emma is an art history major and is just an overall intelligent girl. I asked her about names that would fit me in her realm of knowledge. Maybe some from the greek classics and/or greek myths. 

This is when she told me the story of Persephone, the greek goddess of spring and the underworld. I was in complete euphoria hearing the story and swaying on the surface of the buoyant, dirty water. I felt like a true women just then as Jalaja Bonheim’s writes on her website, 

“When women get together, they tell stories. This is how it has always been. Telling stories is our way of saying who we are, where we have come from and what we know. Women have always found sacredness in the midst of the ordinary, harvesting spiritual wisdom from the fields and forests of their everyday embodied experience.”

Emma went on to tell me the story and the raping of beautiful Persephone. I felt myself slowly being connected to this woman. To her entire experience. I felt myself slowly unpacking, relating, and bonding to this mythical figure.

Persephone is seen as a more vulnerable goddess. Where relationships are essential to her life, as they are to my own. Her whole life, a relationship has taken the lead. Most times over what she really wants and desires. She is known for putting the needs of others over her own, something I have struggled with my whole life. 

Her mother, the powerful goddess Demeter, is controlling and desperately wishes to be with her daughter at all times. Her rapist and husband Hades forces her for a third of the year to be imprisoned with him. She is even the goddess that welcomes the living and shows them the underworld and teaches them about life and death. Plus her constant affairs and dramas with the other gods all goes to prove that this woman takes the people and relationships in her life very seriously. 

This isn't to be confused with weakness, confusion, or stupidity as so many people try to say she is. She loves and she loves hard. She knows both love and loss profoundly. She knows the horror of powerful men deciding and controlling her every move. She knows what it means to transcend through death (her being brought to the underworld with hades) and to be born again as a more powerful, authentic, and understanding woman (when she becomes free again with her mother, picking flowers). She knows sisterhood, struggle, and lust. To me, Persephone is the definition of my womanhood. She embodies a lot of what womanhood looks like for myself and my life. 

The article “Greek Goddesses and the Wisdom of 7 Feminine Archetypes” by Ibtisaam writes about this group of vulnerable goddesses, saying 

“Vulnerable Goddesses (Hera, Demeter and Persephone)... Correspond to traditional roles of wife, mother, and daughter. They are the relationship-oriented goddess archetypes, whose identities and well-being depend on having a significant relationship. They express women’s needs for affiliation and bonding… each of them also evolved, and can provide women with an insight into the nature and pattern of their own reactions to loss, and the potential for growth through suffering.”

Focusing more about Peresphone the author writes 

“Persephone contains within her the dual archetype of the maiden (a young goddess, innocent and associated with fertility) and the Queen of the Underworld (“who reigns over the dead souls, guides the living who visit the underworld, and claims for herself what she wants”). To be the maiden has less to do with age than it does to do with “being the eternal girl who doesn’t commit herself to anything or anyone, because making a definite choice eliminates other possibilities”. While this allows for great adaptability, in order to truly grow, the Persephone woman must learn to make commitments and to live up to them. Failing this, she will forever be a victim of the will and power of others, becoming a long-sufferer or martyr. However, her descent into the underworld shows the possibility of pain forcing growth. As the Queen, Persephone symbolizes receptivity, intuition and empathy to the suffering of others. Thus, Persephone’s gifts include the cultivation of imagination and inspiration.”

As Emma contuined on with the stories I noticed many men started to take the form of Hades in my vision. My dad, my step-dad, my first love, my brother, and the male world at large. Hades had come to symbolize body dysmorphia and the privileged male world. 

Here is Persephone, me. A girl picking flowers, enjoying and comforted by her mother, resting in her beauty and strength. Thinking of nights with her sisters, of lust and love. A girl that wanted to see things, know things, teach things. A girl that wanted the comfortable, dramatic, and loving life as a wife and sister. Just a woman, end of sentence. 

Then a man comes. He corrupts, harms, and oppresses her. Steals her away from her mother and her sisters (stealing her away from her womanhood) and into a world of oppression, abuse, neglect, and pain. A world that some could see, as I do, as a males world. A world that I nor Persephone have been allowed to survive in. Hades kid-napes her, rapes her, holds her prisoner, and slowly tries to make her become what so many women fear to become: a shell of her former, womanly self. 

I felt a massive connection here, I knew what it was like to be taken from the world of women (as I was younger) and into the world of men (when I was older) and feeling completely  disgusted, unnerved, and wrong about it. 

But, Persephone is not weak. She’s smart. She was able to become free. Hades had fallen in love with her womanhood the moment he saw it and she knew that this was his biggest flaw. She had something that she could use. She decided to be his wife because even though he symbolized and represented the worst of manhood, she knew there would be freedom in having access to both worlds. In having relationships in both worlds. She does this even when others don't understand it. Even when people try to rob her of her femininity, she powers on as the undercover ruler of both worlds. 

I relate to this as a woman who consistently feels divided between these two spheres. 

My world of womanhood where I am truly myself, beautiful, and authentic. With other women who protect and respect and care for me. Who love me. Where I can flip my hair, cry, drink wine, and talk about struggle. And the other world, the underworld, where I am surviving, working, and grinding to change and mold into a body and life that is not mine. 

Persephone knows pain, hurt, loss, and grief. Her mission is to help every passenger, in both worlds, better understand themselves and the complexities of living life. This has always been my mission as well and hurt as been the greatest teacher to both of us.

Persephone symbolizes everything I have felt myself to be as a woman. Loving, forgiving, powerful. A woman who gets what she wants even when everyone thinks they have her in the bag. She knows growth and transformation. She is a woman that I have always felt myself to be. 

So now, with the thanks of Emma and research, I am changing my first name to be Persephone. A name that my younger self would've cherished. A deserving name for a deserving woman.

[queerhargreeves]

This Brother Thing

Diego can’t stop his hand from shaking like how it used to at 18. Like how it used to before Eudora. He’s just tired. So, so tired. He reached down to pick up the syringe once more, wiping it with the alcohol cloth for the 9th time tonight, and resumed the familiar position.

OR

Diego needs help and he gets it from the most unlikely sibling. 

WC: 3k+

TW: needles, internalized toxic masculinity, body dysmorphia, body image issues, implied/referenced past child abuse

“Fuckin’ hell.” Diego cursed under his breath, his hand shaking and the bullet wound in his shoulder grounding him from completely losing his tempter with a dull, constant ache.

The man was currently stood shirtless in front of the bathroom mirror. He was clutching the fleshiest part above his hip with his injured arm and held a syringe in his good one. He took another deep breath and attempted the motion again. But not even a moment later the sound of the needle crashing onto the cool tile floor filled the still air in one of the 42 bathrooms - the one closest to his bedroom. It was 11 PM, almost 12, and Diego Hargreeves here almost forgot to do his T shot for the week. To be fair, this wasn’t your average week, even for the ex-superhero.

The pathetic excuse of a father died, his time-traveling brother came back after 17 years of being gone and returned in the teenage body he left in and he learned that said brother lived through the end of the world for ages and became a killer. And the end of the world has this week. But then his other brother was kidnapped, one of the most important women in his life died trying to save him. Diego killed his mother but his mother came back. His brother became a war vet and was gone for ten months. His assumed ordinary sister had powers and slashed his other sisters throat and she almost died in their arms. And his babiest sister almost destroyed the entire world. But then she didn’t. The Hargreeves lived another day as did the rest of the world. Thanks to the help of his now veteran brother who can conjure ghosts to be physical and his brother that’s been dead for years killed assassins that were after him and the rest of his siblings. But that’s all in their past now. Their new version of normal is all seven of them are all living under the same roof again for the time being, just like when they were kids.

So forgive Diego if his weekly testosterone shot happened to slip from his mind, okay? It shouldn’t be, well it never used to be, this damn hard. Not anymore at least. His fear of needles certainly made this weekly process hell at the beginning of his medical transition - this intimate moment in the bathroom he’s been doing since he moved out all those years ago could last up to two hours at a time. Shaky hands, intense staccato heartbeats, and hitched breaths were too common of an occurrence. But then he met Eudora Patch. And everything changed.

The two met during his second semester of the police academy. He admired her from afar for a good while, too scared to approach the woman. Diego was more than content watching this incredible person answer any and all questions with vigor and a spark in her eye. The way she bit on the inside of her lip when a question challenged her, her pencil beating against her notebook, made his heart flutter. If she didn’t understand a concept in class, she was adamant on making sure she figured it out, class and professors be damned. Diego learned how she was more than capable of standing up for herself. Being a black woman in a very male-dominated, whitewashed environment was certainly not the easiest of experiences. She faced comments daily, not just from her peers but from authority figures as well. But Diego knew he was officially head over heels for her when he watched her spit an ignorant 20 something year old out after he made a comment about how “Eudora the explorer” and “go Diego go” were to better suited for a life behind bars than on the field.

And that was how they officially met. Eudora stood up for him and in return, he bought her a coffee.

And then they went out again the next night and the night after that. But before they went on the third night, Diego needed to get something off his chest before he fell any more. He needed to tell her about his identity. Coming out is never something you do once and it doesn’t really get easier.

He practically bolted out of his last class of the week, beelining right to the classroom across the hall to meet up with Eudora. They made it a habit to meet up after class, but this time felt different and he made it quite obvious. If avoiding her for a week wasn’t telling enough, his constant leg bounce, his fingers playing with the fabric of his sweater sleeves, and the gum-chewing at an impressively fast rate was enough. And Eudora, being the quick woman she was, knew that something was up. She sat Diego down on the bench outside and took his hand in hers, reminding him to breathe with exercises she’s learned. She whispered sweet affirmations as she waited for the man in front of her to collect himself. After what seemed like a lifetime, he finally uttered the words.

“I-I’m trans.” The statement hung heavy in the air, the tears threatening to spill out of Diego’s eyes as he stared at his hand in her lap obscuring his vision. Then, a gentle finger tugged his chin up and soft lips met his very own.

“It’s okay.” She said softly, sealing the deal and leaned in for another sweet kiss. The two fell quickly and madly in love after that. Eudora would help Diego with his shots, taking his shaking hands in hers and kissing his knuckles. She kissed the spot of injection before she sterilized the area, and guided both of their hands to the designated area. She never patronized him for his apprehension, not a single time. She knew this vulnerability was hard for him and she was honored that he trusted her enough with something this intimate. Even after every fight and argument, she would never use his vulnerability against him. She was there every week to help if he needed it. And if he didn’t need the extra assistance, she still checked up on him to make sure he got it done.

However, they were two strong, independent people. Quick-witted and rash. They had a tendency to lash out before thinking, their mouths reacting before their brains. They certainly had their good moments. They had wonderful, healing, amazing moments with one another. They had blissful nights of falling asleep in each other's arms as Eudora traced the scars under his pecs after they finished exploring their bodies together for hours. They had long car rides where the two opened up about the most intimate parts of themselves. Then finishing off the ride by belting out 80’s dance songs at the top of their lungs, windows down and hair blowing in the wind. These kinds of nights made it seem like it was them against the world. It was as if these moments would never end.

But they also had equally as world-shattering, soul-crushing moments. They had nights where they only saw red, both of them quick to react to the other’s fractured egos. Especially when Diego got himself kicked out of the academy. There were plenty of eyes rolled and slamming of doors, conversations left with a bitter taste in their mouths and hearts. There were hurtful words thrown around that had the capacity to cut right through the other as fast as one of Diego’s knives, if not faster. They knew how to hurt each other. And they did hurt one another. But they also loved each other. The two of them continued to play this song and dance for years and years.

But that song was over. Dance finished. Eudora was gone. And she wasn’t coming back.

And now Diego can’t stop his hand from shaking like how it used to at 18. Like how it used to before Eudora. He’s just tired. So, so tired. He reached down to pick up the syringe once more, wiping it with the alcohol cloth for the 9th time so far, and resumed the familiar position.

He took a quick sharp inhale and squeezed his eyes shut. But as quick as that inhale was, the exhale was even quicker. It came out as a strangled groan and the syringe clattered against the floor once more.

“God fucking dammit!” Diego choked out louder than he realized and clenched his fists tight, willing them to stop shaking. He couldn’t stand himself, couldn’t stand how he is no longer able to even take care of himself right now. He should be past this. But he didn’t have Eudora to talk him down. He didn’t have her kind voice and gentle grip to help nor her nagging texts anymore. He didn’t have anyone.

“Oh, my bad. I-”

Diego whipped around in one swift motion, now eye to eye with his biggest brother. He was dressed in a thin grey long sleeve shirt and pajama pants. Oh yeah, his brother who was almost killed on a mission and was injected with Chimpanzee DNA to survive and is now three times the size of a normal human. The brother who had his body horribly mutilated without his consent by their poor excuse for a father.

“Sorry, didn’t realize this was occupied. I can, uh…” Luther trailed off and Diego watched as Luther took in the sight in front of him. Syringe on the floor, Testosterone bottle of to the side, and his brother in near hysterics and barely keeping it together. He looked as if he would fall apart at the softest breeze of wind.

“I-I-I,” Diego quickly snapped his mouth shut, jaw clenching and fists continuing to shake at his sides at an ever faster degree. He threw his head back and burning holes at the ceiling with his eyes, trying his best to regain some sort of composure. Luther didn’t need to see him like this - didn’t need to see him weak. Pathetic, inadequate Number Two.

“Hey, no Di,” Luther started as he softly closed the door behind him, “It’s okay.” He commented with a voice that Diego doesn’t think he’s heard before. At least not in a very, very long time.

“You’re okay… It’s okay.” He gently placed his hand on his shoulder and gave it a light squeeze, desperately hoping Diego believed him even if he wasn’t the best at comforting other people. But Luther didn’t miss the way his brother’s muscled stiffened under his touch. That broke his heart even more.

Luther was also tired. He didn’t want to do this anymore - the fighting and ugly comments. The two were always trying to one-up the other, trying to “out man” and assert their dominance. They have been doing it for the last 20+ years, or as long as their number rankings have been enforced. It was their idea of normal. But if looking death in the eye for the hundredth and most catastrophically devastating time taught Luther anything, it’s that all this petty stuff is useless. He loved his family. He loved Diego.

“I can help. Is...is that alright Diego?” Luther asked cautiously, not wanting to over step any more boundaries than he already has. He eyed Diego for any sort of reaction, which he was not rewarded with. He took a deep breath and removed his hand from his shoulder in the hopes that giving him some space would help.

“It’s not a big deal, I promise. We’ve...we’ve been through a lot, haven’t we?” That earned a small shrug from Diego which Luther considered progress from the almost catatonic state he’s been in since he’s walked in.

“I, uh. After you came out I looked into this sort of stuff.” He paused and took a seat at the edge of the bathtub, “I researched anything I could at the library about trans related stuff, testosterone, surgery, passing, binding. After you left... I made sure Pogo sent you enough money for your transition and stuff. I watched videos of trans people documenting their transition. I’m not an expert by any means but it did help me understand you better. I know trans people have a high rate of...of hurting themselves.” Diego finally met Luther’s eyes, which Luther considered the biggest win yet and he decided to continue. He was already this far off, might as well. Apparently, this whole communicating thing works.

“I want you to know I never thought less of you because of this. And same with your stutter,” Luther added, knowing that was yet another thing Reginald and his brother berated himself constantly for, “You’ve always been unapologetically yourself. You knew who you were such a young age and you always stood up for what you believe in. And that made us butt heads a lot and I’m sorry about that. You weren’t blinded like I was. I have so much respect for you, you know? I want to be better at this brother thing.” Luther sighed and wrung his hands together.

“I-I’m also sorry I made that comment about your job. You’re definitely a lot better at this whole being a ‘real grown-up’ thing than I am.”

And that earned a snort from Diego which Luther couldn’t help but smile at that. The anxious pit in his stomach lightened.

“You’re already getting better at this brother th...th-” Diego stopped for a moment, eyes locked with Luther. And he didn’t see a trace of judgment or a hint of mockery. All he saw was patience. “Thing.”

Luther gave a small nod, a faint smile ghosted on his lips.

“And I meant it when I said I can help you with your shot.”

“I-”

“I know you’re capable of doing it yourself. But with your gunshot wound and everything that’s happened this week...it’s okay. To accept some help I mean.” Luther couldn’t help but hold his breath ever so slightly. This was more emotions and vulnerability they’ve shared in the last 10 minutes than the pair has shared over the last 29 years.

“O...Okay. You can - you can help.” Diego finally spoke after a moment. His voice shook as he still sounded cautious, but the act of him letting Luther do this for him alone spoke enough for the bigger man.

A wave of relief washed over Luther as he stood and gave Diego’s good shoulder another squeeze. He bent down and picked up the syringe on the floor and carefully placed it down on the bathtub next to him. He quickly opened the cabinets next to Diego’s head.

“Should probably sterilize this one more time,” Luther said as he grabbed a cotton swab and alcohol. In a few swift motions, he managed to dab the alcohol onto the swab and placed the items back in the cabinet. Wordlessly, he picked up the syringe and cleaned the needle as well as the area above Diego’s skin. If Luther didn’t know where to inject the red fingerprint marks on his skin certainly helped plenty.

He washed his hands before picking up the needle again and dropped down to his knees to get a better angle. He had his left hand on the area above Diego’s hip and the syringe in his right hand. Being 6’5 didn’t make this an easy angle, but he was willing to do whatever he needed to do to make this go as smoothly as possible for his brother.

“Okay, I’m gonna touch you now,” Luther warned gently placed his hands around the area so he didn’t jump at the contact. Diego looked down for a moment and nodded, braced himself with still shaking hands.

“I’m going to count down from three and go for it at one. Sound good?” Luther watched as his brother gulped, eyes squeezed shut. But still no answer.

“If you can’t say yes or no, can you give me either a nod or a shake of the head?” He pressed gently.

Diego took a deep sigh, and another one, before finally nodding.

“Okay, here we go.” Luther raised the syringe right above the flesh he grasped between his fingers.

“Three, t-” Luther quickly injected the syringe before he could even finish the word, pushed down at the plunger, and just as quick as it started he pulled the sucker out.

“Okay!” Luther breathed out, getting up from his spot on the floor and finding the needle cap and putting it back on.

“You did good, Di.” He gave the shorter man a soft smile and an affirmative nod.

Diego finally breathed out the air he didn’t even realize he was holding. He stared down at the injection site without saying a word before pulling the rest of his shorts up. Not a drop of blood. He didn’t even feel a pinch.

He finally looked back at Luther, his blue eyes and smile comforting his residual nerves. He opened his mouth for a second before shutting it once more. He gave a small shake of his head and wasted no time in wrapping his good arm around his blonde brother.

Luther let out a tiny squeak, his arms hovering above his brother's shoulders in the air. He couldn’t help but flinch at the sudden touch, not used to anyone wanting to get this close to his new body. He wasn’t a fan of this new body so why would anyone else be?

“If-If it’s okay for me, it’s okay for y...you too, Lu.” Diego muffled into his shoulder, tightening his grip to show him as such. It’s okay. It’s okay.

Luther relaxed ever so slightly and let himself be held. He slowly dropped his arms and wrapped them gently around Diego, careful not to justle his hurt arm.

This? This felt nice, foreign as it is. He loved his brother. And his brother loved him. They were taught that emotions were a weakness. They were taught that intimacy and vulnerability are things that deserved to be shunned - something they should be ashamed of. But this new, radical concept of trying to rebuild their relationships as a family is the best thing that has ever happened in their lives. The Hargreeves are going to be