#and entirely unrelated but settled on a middle name for myself at least for now

[khaoticqueer]

got new laptop. accidentally fucked up my csp files trying to transfer them to my external drive to move them from my old laptop and the most recent backup I had on the drive previously was from 2 years ago lmao fml.

[moonflower-31]

I Won’t Forget You - Spencer Reid x Reader

Masterlist 

Part 5 

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader 

Warnings: None, other than some yelling and negative self talk. 

Tags: @dra-reid, @eevee0722, @ceeellewrites, @anotherr-fine-mess, @ssahoodrathotchner 

~~~~~~~~~ 

Ever feel like the world just hates you? That everything around you is crumbling? Yeah. That's what you felt right about now. 

"Mother?" 

"Y/N I have had it with these shenanigans of yours! You promised your father you'd take over the family business! We raised you for this!" The woman scolded, storming up to you and getting into your face. 

"H-hey, leave her alone." Spencer spoke up, pushing your mother away from you slightly. The woman then grasped his wrist torturously, yanking him forward. 

"You! I don't know what you see in my stupid daughter, but you need to leave her alone! She has a life, a future! A fiancé! She doesn't have time for you!" Your mother screeched. You felt the blood in your veins boil almost instantly. You had to physically restrain yourself from hurting the woman who gave birth to you. 

"You don't know me, Mother! You never have! I never wanted the damn business! It's what you and dad wanted! Me? This is what I wanted. For years! But no. No, I just have to take the business." You growl, shoving your mother off of Spencer. He didn't deserve to be in the middle of this. 

"What you wanted? Pah! This isn't about what you want! It's never been about what you want! God you're such a selfish child! Always have been! And yet here I thought Peter was a good fit for you-" 

"A good fit?! Mother do you know the contents of those creepy-ass letters he sent me? If I was in the BAU back then, I would have sent these to my director to get him arrested for harassment!" You seethed, your fists clenched at your sides. 

"Oh boo hoo! You have an admirer! He was set to marry you! Do you blame him for wanting you?! The children you two will produce will be the future of our company. And you will listen! You are coming with me back home and you will marry Peter Calvin! And you will finish business school to take over the company-" your mother reached out and grabbed your wrist instead, beginning to try and drag you out the door. You feel a sudden panic enter you, and before you can realize what you're doing, you have your mother pressed against the hard tile ground. 

"I said, NO." You hiss. "I changed my last name because of that bastard. I left home. I got my own schooling. I made a life for me. Not you. And I'm not about to give into your empty threats again." You have your face close to her ear, pulling at her arm. She grunts from underneath you, about to open her mouth and most likely make herself out to be the victim. 

But instead you pulled harder on her arm. "No. Don't you dare. Everyone in this room knows now how much of a bitch you are. Now, I'm going to let you up from this floor, and you are going to lose my number. I will only come around to see Arthur on his birthday and Christmas. He has my number. He can call me. I never want to speak to you or my father again, understand?" 

"You bitch… do you know what you're subjecting your brother to? What responsibility that you're wasting on him? You are a selfish, no good brat. He doesn't deserve the position. You were born to meet this purpose! Not him! He was an accident-" your mother began to snap, standing up once you let your foot off of her. 

"A happy one at that. He was the only solace I had through all of your lies and all of the pressures you put on me. I wish I could forget you. Forget you even exist. But unfortunately you do. But I will live like you don't, just to spite you." 

"Why you little bitch-!" Your mother screeched at you, beginning to make an attempt to lung at you. 

Then Spencer side stepped in front of you, glaring down at the woman who you called your mother. "I think it's time you leave. If I hadn't stepped in, we could have charged you with the assault of a federal agent. Do you know how many years in prison that is? Approximately 8 or more years, depending on the circumstance." Spencer practically spat, glaring harshly into your mother's e/c eyes. The only trait you shared with her. 

"You can't lie to me! She isn't even past being a secretary-!" Your mother insisted, attempting to shove Spencer away. However, he was an immovable force, despite your mother's unrelenting determination. 

"Actually, she just graduated from the academy, making her a federal agent. She works alongside my teammates at the BAU. And in my opinion she has done more good to this world than being the business woman you tried to make her." Spencer expressed, catching you off guard. Did he really feel that way? After only one case? You felt a thumping in your chest, proving your heart to be nervous. 

"But she's-" 

"A valuable member of our team. And I believe we would be sorely mistaken to not take her on as a full agent at the end of her shadowing period." Spencer interrupted, a slight smirk on his face. He crosses his arms, blocking your mother further from getting to you. 

"You-you-!" She growled, knowing she had lost. She snarled harshly under her breath, turning her hellfire-like gaze towards you. "This isn't over-" 

"Yes, it is, Margaret." You hurled back. 

And with that, your mother turned and stormed out of the building. 

It felt like a massive weight was lifted from your shoulders, making your legs feel numb. Spencer turned around and managed to catch you before you fell, letting you brace yourself against his arms. 

"Are you okay?" He asks. You sigh. Bless this man for being so selfless at a time like this. 

"Does it look like I'm alright? My controlling ass of a mother just tried to force me back to a life I hated." You snap, squeezing Spencer’s forearms to steady yourself. 

"S-sorry… I-I meant physically." 

"No, Spencer…" you sigh, shaking your head. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped. I just… it's a long story. And I didn't expect her to have been able to find me. I did enough hacking to be able to hide myself and my paper trails. At least from the people who used to know me. I'm fine, physically. But emotionally and mentally? That's a whole other story." You felt exhausted. It was like after a long and tiresome journey, the hero had to fight one last monster. 

"That's alright, I completely understand. Do… Do you want me to take you home? I don't think I'd trust you behind a wheel right now." Spencer lightly chuckled. You feel a gentle smile form and you look up at Spencer teasingly. 

"What? Is my amnesia really that bad, doc?" You tease. He rolled his eyes, a smile forming onto his face after seeing yours. 

"If I say yes, will you be a good girl and let me drive you home?" He asks. You feel your cheeks immediately brighten at his words. You had never been called a 'good girl'. Much less had you ever been called it by someone other than your parents. So why the hell did it make you feel certain things? Make you feel tingly? 

You give him a nod, unable to fathom just what the hell he just said to you. He smiled at you warmly, helping you to stand straight as he helped walk you to his car.

What the hell even was this day? This entire week? 

○●♡●○ 

"S-sorry it isn't much." Spencer apologized,  unlocking the door and holding it open for you. You smile at him and walk into the apartment. 

It wasn't massive, but it was damn sure fancier than the apartment you and your friends rented. It wasn't without color, but it wasn't overly decorated, like a bunch of rich apartments you'd seen on the way up the stairs. Let's just say some people didn't know how blinds worked. 

"'Isn't much'?" You asked in a scoff, looking around the apartment in a slight twirl. "Reid, it suits you. And you are more than 'isn't much'." You insist, stopping where you were standing. "Besides, it was you who insisted on taking me here instead of my own place."

"Spencer." 

"Hm?" You asked, confused by his sudden mention of his name. 

"You… can call me Spencer. It's only fair now." He added, his voice obviously full of nerves. You feel your heart melt just a little at his indication. You smile at him, happy that he trusted you enough already to let you call him by his first name. Even though you were so hesitant about sharing yours. 

Then that brought about a long, and awkward silence. This had not been how you planned on telling everyone your name. Especially Spencer. And now of course, your mother had to ruin it. 

"Look I-" you sigh, unable to finish your statement. You put your face in your hands and groan, gripping at the roots of your hair. You walk to Spencer’s couch and take a seat, hoping that you wouldn't produce anymore tears. 

Silence passes over the both of you, making it possible to hear the creaking of the floor as Spencer made his way to your side. 

"So… (Y/N), huh?" He asks, taking a seat beside you. 

"Yeah… my mother wanted to name me Gwenevere. But my grandfather was sick of the medieval English names and put his foot down. So they settled on (Y/N) instead." You explain, a slight smile curling on your face as you think of your grandfather. 

"Well… I think it's pretty. It suits you." He says, flashing one of his smiles at you. Yet again you feel the butterflies start to flutter around in your stomach, making you nervous to even speak. 

After a small moment of silence, you were about ready to just stand up and try to get comfortable. Try to sleep. But it seemed Spencer didn't get the memo. 

"(Y/N)... I…" he began. You swallowed a sigh, closing your eyes tightly as you braced yourself for this conversation. 

"It's okay. I get it. You're curious. I'm the 'Mystery Girl'. But there are some things I think you would be better off not involved in." You assure, laying a hand on Spencer’s shoulder.  

"Is there… anything I can know? I know it isn't my place but-" 

"Of course. Just… don't ask about Peter, okay? Or...what made me change my last name." You promise, giving him a half smile. 

"Thank you, (Y/N)." 

"Please, call me (Y/N/N). It feels better than (Y/N)." You admit, raising a hand and rubbing your neck. 

"(Y/N/N)..." he ponders for a moment. " I like it." He flashes a smile, making you giggle slightly. 

"I'm glad you do." You joke, finding you had moved impossibly closer to Spencer and his lap. You clear your throat and scoot a little away. "I...I'd like to get those questions done and over with. Make reliving everything willingly easier to get over with." You give him an unsure smile, looking down at your fidgeting hands. 

"Oh...heh, well…" Spencer too let out a nervous laugh before he began, trying to figure out what to even say. To ask. 

"What's your family's business? Why did you leave?" He asks. You take a deep breath and begin your reply. 

"It's been in my family for what feels like centuries. Really it was founded by my great-grandfather. It got started as an oil company, and then became a stocks and loans company. It's really boring. I never enjoyed looking over the statistics, or any of the graphs my father would try to get me to understand. I… I left for a multitude of reasons. But, one that I can tell you was my parents and their 'dream' for me to own the business. They wouldn't let me go to college unless I went for business. That's why I have the business minor. I had to put up a front, even if I was on multiple scholarships. I just feel bad I'm putting this all on Arthur. If I leave, they're going to try and groom him into taking on the company. Last time I saw him, he was barely old enough for high-school! " You exclaim, your nails now digging into your palms. 

Spencer immediately took your hands in his, making you stop clenching your fists so tightly. He rubbed his thumbs against your palms gently, encouraging you to continue if you needed. 

"Spencer-" you start, attempting to pull back your hands. He held on strong despite your attempt, shaking his head. "I thought you had a thing for germs-" 

"I do. But I can always wash my hands after this. You need this. And you were hurting yourself. If you need to talk, I'm here." He insists, squeezing just enough to make you feel it. 

"I'm sorry…" you exhale tiredly. "You didn't deserve to have to get involved today. She… she was always under the impression that I left for a boy. That I discarded everything that I 'wanted' for a city boy. And that my goal to work for the Bureau was a fever dream. A fib." 

"That does explain her behavior towards me. But still, she shouldn't have tried to drag you away like that." Spencer expressed, still gently rubbing the indents on your palms. You hadn't noticed it yet, but they had begun to bleed from how hard you were pressing.

"I know. But she's headstrong. Always has been. Once she's made up her mind, god help you if you try to change it." You chuckle, looking away from Spencer for a moment. 

"Sometimes…" you begin, getting Spencer to refocus his gaze on you and, in his opinion, your beautiful features. "I-I begin to think my mother is right. That I'm just some selfish brat who couldn't settle for all the 'good' she was given. That I was just hungry for more privilege than I had." 

Spencer furrows his eyebrows, shaking his head. "No. (Y/N), everything about that is complete bullshit and you know it. You belong on this team. It's where you want to be. There are many studies that show workers who feel a higher calling to their jobs are among the most content in the world. You deserve that, (Y/N)." 

You widen your eyes as each sentence came falling from Spencer’s mouth. Where did this come from? Not that you didn't enjoy this. No, it was the fact that no one had ever told you something remotely similar. With or without the statistics. No one had told you that you belonged. And that did wonders on your heart. 

You feel tears build up in the corners of your eyes, making the world begin to swim for a few brief moments until you blinked them away. 

Spencer reached up and wiped the two stray tears from your cheeks, smiling down at you. "I'm going to make some tea. Does chamomile work for you?" He asks, patting the couch behind you as he begins to get up. The smile you hadn't realized was on your face just grew brighter as you nodded. 

"Yeah… yeah that's fine. As long as you sit here with me. I… I don't want to fall asleep alone tonight." You begged, feeling a slight pang of embarrassment for having asked. 

"Of course, I'll head back down and get your go bag from my car." He assures, placing a steaming cup in front of you. It currently had a tea bag in it, but the smell was comforting already. 

You nod to him in understanding, watching as he went. Once the door was closed, you grabbed the cup and pulled your knees close to your chest. You blow gently on the steaming liquid, letting your mind wander. 

Before you could venture too far into your mind, your phone began to ring. You raised an eyebrow and pulled out your phone, answering with a hesitant "Hello?" 

"Hey yourself my queen! So, I was thinking, the rest of the girls and I have been wanting to go out on the bar scene. We were thinking in about a week. If we don't have any new cases overlap it. Wanna go?" Penelope rambled, obviously excited. You giggle slightly and smile a little.

"Sure, Pen. Is it gonna be a girls night?" You asked. 

"It can be! You want it to be a girls only night, then it'll be a girls only night! We'll talk all about Mr. Junior G Man. And your little crush~" 

"Pen-!" You playfully scold. 

"No take-backsies! Anyway… how are you? I heard what happened during the case. You couldn't have changed the outcome Sugar." She comforts, making you feel cared for for the second time that day. First Spencer and now Penelope. 

"I… I know that. It just hurts is all." You sigh. 

"I know. It hurts me to see all these pictures when I have to pick a case. Sometimes it's so hard to choose because I want to help them all." She confides. "Also, this is kind of unrelated but I love 'Pen' as a nickname. Keep it, please!" 

You finally find the strength to giggle again, smiling wider. "Will do. I should probably go though. I'm tired and I just want to get some sleep. I didn't sleep for four days. I think I deserve at least 9 hours." You snicker. 

"Yes ma'am! I'll call you again in the morning! Rest up my queen! Garcia out!" 

You close your phone and toss it onto the coffee table in front of you, and on top of the copy of Edgar Allen Poe's poems. 

You pick it up gently, moving your tea so as to not get any on the book. You then begin to look through it, finding a few that you enjoyed. 

About 5 minutes later, you hear the door open again, and the wooden floor creaks as you can hear Spencer walking towards you.

"You read poetry?" He asks. You turn your head and see he was very much go-bag-less. 

"Y-yeah. It-s something that has a different meaning every time I read it. It never gets boring." You answer. "Where's my go bag?" You ask. 

"W-well… I took a moment to see if you had anything to sleep in, but you didn't. So…" he paused, handing you an outfit from your go-bag. "I'll just let you borrow one of my shirts." 

Immediately warning lights flashed in your head. Fuck. Was this too soon? No, he was doing this out of kindness, not because he wanted a damn relationship. 

You took the outfit, grateful he had been kind enough to be sure you were comfortable and that you had clothes to change into. 

"No… I really shouldn't-" 

"It's no problem, promise. I have an extra blanket you can use too." He settles, not giving you time to even respond or think about it. 

You sigh, finally giving in and chuckling to yourself. You took a few sips of your tea, waiting for Spencer to return with whatever shirt he had picked out for you to wear. 

He soon returned, carrying an old, navy blue t-shirt that had the words 

written across the front in worn down orange text. 

"This is the only one I could find that would be long enough." He informs, handing it to you. You hold it out and look it over. You felt off for accepting this. You felt like he was your boyfriend and you were stealing his clothes. But he wasn't. And you were just borrowing. 

You smile to him and put the cup of tea down onto the coffee table, making sure not to put it on any of the books. Then you stood up and began to look for the bathroom. 

"If you're looking for the bathroom it's down the hall and to your left." Spencer informs as you get up. You turn your head and smile once more at the genius. 

After a couple minutes in the bathroom, you walk back out, absolutely drowning in Spencer’s t-shirt. And here you thought you were somewhat close to his size. 

Spencer looked up from the book you had been reading before and his eyes landed on you and ceased to move afterwards. If he were to be honest, you were beautiful. And seeing you in his shirt made him feel a sense of… well he didn't know. But he had been told it was like companionship. And partially ownership. Like she was actually partially his. But not, in the same way. 

"I know, it's huge." You comment, walking over to Spencer’s couch and taking your previous seat. 

"I wasn't...I wouldn't say that…" Spencer fumbled, sitting back against the couch with the book in his hands. His eyes were on you though. The whole time. They had followed you the entire time since you had walked out. He couldn't keep his eyes off of you. 

"Then… what would you say?" You asked out of temptation. 

Spencer felt a slight wave of panic rush over him. This wasn't too early, was it? He wanted to get to know you better. Especially before he tried anything. But it just felt… right. How could he explain that to you without scaring you away? 

"That… I uh, I'd say you look good. It suits you. The school, I mean." Spencer adds at the end, making you laugh. 

"That so? You trying to get me to go back to school, Doctor?" You teased. 

"That's up to you. Though school is good at opening opportunities to its students. At least college is." Spencer replied. 

You laughed and leaned closer to Spencer, yawning softly. You looked over his shoulder at the poem he had opened, and you smiled. 

"Read me one?" You asked. 

"You...want me to…" he asked, unsure of the clear question you just asked him. 

"Read to me. Please?" You asked, yawning again. "It'll help me sleep." You say, batting your eyes pathetically. He laughed gently and nodded. 

"Okay okay… let's start with this one." He says, adjusting the book so that he could read it and let you get comfortable. 

You snuggled closer on instinct, yawning the biggest yawn you had yet that day. 

Spencer hummed for a moment, before he began to read. "Romance, who loves to nod and sing, with drowsy head and folded wing, among the green leaves as they shake, Far down within some shadowy lake, To me a painted paroquet." He began, his voice like honey for your ears as you rested your head against his shoulder. You couldn't help but wonder what it would be like, listening to him read every night with your head on his chest or with you sitting in his lap. 

"Hath been, a most familiar bird, Taught me my alphabet to say, To lisp my very earliest word. While in the wild wood I did lie, a child, with a most knowing eye." He continued, almost a spell like trance he was casting upon your eyes. You could barely even keep them open as your body finally was able to catch up with you and encourage some well deserved rest. 

"Of late, eternal Condor years so shake the very Heaven on high with tumult as they thunder by, I have no time for idle cares, through gazing on the unquiet sky." You wanted more than anything to stay away for the last part of the poem, but you couldn't. Once you had let your body rest, and finally relax, you were a goner. 

However, he still continued, wanting to finish your request even though he knew you were asleep almost immediately. "And when an hour with calmer wings it's down upon my spirit flings, That little time with lyre and rhyme to while away - forbidden things! My heart would feel to be a crime unless it trembled with the strings." 

He gently closed the book once the final syllable left his lips. He placed the book gently down on the coffee table in front of the two of you, and grabbed a second book. He had read it already, but it gave him something to say he had been doing instead of getting up and disturbing your sleep. But also, to insist that he hadn't watched how peaceful and beautiful you were. And how he hadn't made sure to count the rise and fall of your chest to be sure you were alright. 

[ittakesrain]

and now, an essay thing I have nowhere else to publish

One of my most vivid memories is of what happened one sunny April morning when I was sixteen.  My parents had brought me to a random doctor’s office for a random appointment, and it pissed me off because I should have been in school.  I should have been sitting in my AP chemistry class learning about radiation.  It would require so much time to catch up on all of what I missed, and even though I was acing the class, the ever-present whispers of derisive thoughts emanating from my brain were particularly loud that day.  Their volume increased until they were almost deafening, until I could barely hear the sound of blood rushing through my head, until I could barely concentrate on standing up, barely fight to stay on my feet as black spots clouded my vision.  They told me everything would go to shit because I was going to fail chemistry and not get into college and never amount to anything.  They told me I should have fucking been in class.

But instead, I was pacing in the waiting room of this strange, unfamiliar office, painfully cold as always despite my layers upon layers of clothing.  I had my belt pulled tight, as it was the only thing holding my baggy 00 jeans onto my ghostly and withered body.  I genuinely didn’t know why I was there, yet I had an overpowering feeling that something life-shattering was about to happen.

A nurse called me back.  I followed her into an exam room.  She instructed me to undress entirely and put on a gown.  I did, and it finally hit me what was coming.  Panicked apprehension coursed through my veins with every pained, frantic beat.  She told me she had to get my height.  I slid off the exam table to be measured, stood tall, steadying my shaky hands as they fell to my sides.  Five feet.

Then, with nerves reaching an insurmountable level, she told me to stand on the scale. The heavy-duty, never-inaccurate, medical-grade scale. I stepped carefully onto it, as if I didn’t already know what it was going to say. A lifetime passed by in a second, my heart stopped as time froze. The machine beeped as it landed on what it had declared as my weight. I didn’t look, I didn’t look, I didn’t look. Nothing was happening. Don’t look, don’t look. But after I’d stood there forever and ever, holding the air in my lungs until it hurt, I looked at the nurse. She was staring at me. I breathed out. I looked at the scale. I sucked a lung-full of oxygen into my body involuntarily.

My heart leaped at the number, three pounds below what I’d last seen, and then plummeted into a free-fall. There was no derisive voice in my head telling me I wasn’t good enough. There was just a pitter-patter of words bouncing off the edges of my mind, echoing loudly between reverberating silence: Sick. Shame. Sick. Broken. Sick. Sick. Sick.

In the sheer terror of the moment, I had no idea how it had happened, how I’d gotten that way. But the truth was that I was nearly seventeen years old and I weighed sixty-five pounds.  And at that point, I knew what I was doing and how I’d gotten that way.

It was simple in the most complex and intricate of ways: I had an eating disorder.  And I’d had one for three years.  It had been all I’d known for three long years.  The gnawing, excruciating hunger that had long since dissipated into expansive internal emptiness.  The bitter cold that lay so deep within me that it had settled permanently in my bones.  The sheer, unrelenting anxiety, the weighted feeling of impending doom.  I’d been trapped.

And in an eternity that lasted only three months, I was released into a freedom I hadn’t realized existed.  I could write novels about what happened during those months, those wonderful, terrible, frightening, uncertain, beautiful months.  And I will write those novels.  But the point is that the identity I’d been chained to for so goddamn long would no longer be attached to me.  Being reborn like that?  It’s indescribable.

But it’s twelve years later.  Twelve fucking years later.  And I once again officially fall into the category of “someone with an eating disorder.”  Instead of three years, it’s been three months.  Instead of being grossly underweight, I’m just 25 or so pounds lighter.  But the thoughts, the fears, the discomfort...it’s all there.  Again.  As if no time has passed.  I’m afraid of jelly.  I’m afraid.  Of fucking.  Jelly.  I’ve arbitrarily attached emotion to jelly as if the main ingredient of the stuff is “paralyzing anxiety.”

I hate it.  I hate that I’m doing this again.

It’s different now, though.  I just keep telling myself to “cut the shit.”  I’ve done it before.  I’m no longer in the dark. I have knowledge.   I’m well aware that I can be released into freedom, that the chains holding me to this identity are nothing compared to the supernova of resilience powering all that I am.  But I feel too far gone. It scares me.

Not to mention, as I’m ashamed to admit, that I like my body better now.  Superficial as it maybe be, it’s a relief to have gotten rid of all the weight I’d gained after getting on the new meds (which, by the way, are a literal gift from whatever god might be up there).  I know I shouldn’t like the weight loss, but I do.   I have a sick pride in it,  just like how I’m stupidly proud of the fact that I was 65 fucking pounds two months before turning 17.  With that at least it was because, after three years of suffering, that number was all I had to show for it. But now? I don’t know what the deal is.  I guess it’s just nice to be able to be good at something again.

It probably also has to do with control again, with how I desperately want it.  It just isn’t making me feel any closer to that elusive concept anymore.  Like, why is it that when I’m waging war with myself over the simple act of sitting down to eat, I never have control over the outcome?

It probably has to do with how I was bored.  How I wanted to be distracted, wanted something to focus on. How I was morbidly curious.

It probably has to do with the low self-esteem I’ve begun to wear even though it doesn’t feel right on me.

I keep telling myself that I just “went at this a little too hard.”  That it was really just an attempt to lose weight gone wrong because my brain naturally just jumps to this shit when life gets stressful.  A result of the fact that I’ve never known any sort of middle ground in regards to anything.  I’ve never understood healthy dieting.  If you want to lose weight, why not just stop eating altogether?  It’s a miswired translation code in my head.  I’ve never been able to fix it.  I’ve only ever worked around it.

Maybe that’s the problem: I never got around to rewiring everything.

When I write, it’s to give people something they can read to understand something.  Something they can read to be dragged down to the depths of my mind and come out with my feelings and desires, as fucked up and crazy as they might be, as souvenirs.  I don’t think many people need to visit hell, though.  I think it’s enough for me to do so. 

Maybe writing this will help me rewire.  Maybe afterward I’ll remember even more vividly how fucking insanely disgusting my eating disorder was at its peak.  Maybe I’ll drag myself down to the depths of my former mind, the mind I used to try like mad to learn an entirely new way of looking at things, processing things, and understanding things.  The mind I used to smash the title of “anorexic” into so many pieces that it no longer lingered above my head and next to my name. 

I can’t fathom where in the fuck to start.  But if my brain is made of wires, the wires are reduced to words.  So let’s just call this a beginning.

[early-sxnsets]

No Wait Unblock Me

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18215168/chapters/43133210

Chapter 2/10 of It’s A Handheld Disaster

Word Count: 1580

Chapter Summary: Simon and Baz finally get to "mutuals" status.

BAZ

For the third time today, I see a similar notification slide through my drop down.

bi-sammy sent you a picture

Part of me initially wants to sigh, roll my eyes, and swipe it away, because apparently part of me wishes to be alone for the rest of my life. Thankfully, the reasonable, tiny sliver of my mind makes sure I don’t make such a mistake.

Given the situation, one would think we’d parted ways. He makes a post, we stop the argument, all is fair in fandom and war. Except, now I believe Snow has grown under an impression that after one exchange, it qualifies us for somewhat of a friendship, and therefore reason to send me memes. Don’t get me wrong, memes are a fantastic waste of time and barely a waste of energy, but it’s strange that he’s not fucking off like most people.

Maybe I’m used to others being scared of me.

Maybe I’m used to others following my tactics of scaring them away.

Whatever I’ve done hasn’t worked, since this arse is immune to my attempts at coldness and mild animosity. I’m starting to suspect there’s something genuinely wrong with him, like he doesn’t get enough love and attention.

Guess that makes two of us.

I guess I somewhat crave this friendship. I’ll speak the truth to that and say yes, I smile when his memes pop up. They’re almost always fandom, and definitely made on Photoshop. This one, I see as I tap and let it load, is the crudely drawn Kirby graphic shoving burgers into his mouth, but over Kirby is photoshopped a picture of Huxley’s face and the burgers are Sam's ass.

It’s all poorly done and, sadly, extremely endearing.

My thumbs hover over my keyboard, cheeks creasing as I stare down at the picture. I lay back against my pillows, the curtains drawn and my hair pulled out of my face. It’s quite lonely; my life’s a sterile mixture of quarantined education and age old settled dust in my ancient room. It’s nice to have his somewhat obnoxious messages pop onto my screen, but it feels so odd. So foreign, and barely understood.

I want to understand.

gaystrell: why are you still messaging me?

I get an answer not even a minute later.

bi-sammy: do you want me to stop?

I don’t even hesitate to send out a reply, feeling a steadily growing lump in my throat, choking me mindless.

gaystrell: no.

bi-sammy: then why did you ask?

gaystrell: i just

gaystrell: don’t get it

bi-sammy: get what?

gaystrell: why you’d want to talk to me

bi-sammy: because youre cool

gaystrell: vexing me won’t get you “street cred”, if that’s what you’re after

bi-sammy: shit no wait that’s not what i meant

bi-sammy: dont block me fukc wait

bi-sammy: id just meant that you wrote all that shit and i thought it was really cool and

bi-sammy: i dont know

bi-sammy: i thought we could be friends since you did all that

bi-sammy: ill stop if you want me to

gaystrell: calm down you’re clogging my notifs

gaystrell: do that again and i /will/ block you

gaystrell: but………. if you actually do want to be friends i suppose i’m willing to give forth a little attention

bi-sammy: im osrry i dont speak posh cunt

gaystrell: too bad, blocked

bi-sammy: no wait unblock me

gaystrell: fine last chance

bi-sammy: bitch

gaystrell: b l o c k e d

bi-sammy: no but,,,,,,, i do want to be friends

I’m smiling like a fucking loon, scrolling through our brief exchange. It’s strange. Most people aren’t upfront about wanting to talk, or wanting someone to talk with. Wanting a friend, even. I have the people follow me and ask me questions, and of that only a small handful of those who actually interact eith me (and even in that, we usually only speak to give each other a helping hand).

And despite that, here’s someone who wants to try.

I suck my lower lip into my mouth, trying to think of my course of actions.

There’s a simple one I can take now (and probably should’ve taken as an initiative). I click his icon, and click “Follow” on his page.

It doesn’t take very long before I get a notification come through, starting that he mentioned me in a post.

It isn’t very long, but it gets its point across in the best way possible. It’s just a mobile screenshot, reading “gaystrell started following bi-sammy” with a quick caption.

god himself entered the groupchat. how do i block him?

SIMON

I wonder what it’d be like to see me in the moment. It’s a real shame Penn wasn’t around to capture it, since I’m in the middle of French class, but I must’ve smiled so stupidly that it caught the attention of the professor. He gave me a stern look until I set down my mobile.

The moment he turned away, I opened it back up and grinned.

At first, I didn’t believe what I was seeing. Him. Following me.

Us. Mutuals. Mutuals.

Of course I had to screenshot and post as a brag (barely humble, more metaphorically sucking my own knob for all my followers to see). Nobody really cares, as expected.

Well, nobody except the single message from none other than Mr. Bitch.

gaystrell: blocked. unfollowed. reported. waste of space.

My smile creases back my cheeks as they flush pink. I send back a quick message before turning my mobile over, foot tapping double the speed of the analogue on the wall.

bi-sammy: ;)

BAZ

He winked. Interesting.

I’m out of breath.

Fuck?

I lay my phone flat away from me, face down as I squint at my wall. I should respond in a composed fashion. I have to be clever, and not one-upping him is never an option. After all, does this qualify as flirting? Friendly banter? What am I doing with this random fucking bloke that I don’t even have a face to put to?

He’s my age. Roughly. Yes?

I check his tumblr again, as if I hadn’t just read his bio earlier.

simon // he/him // 17 // hold my fucking hand (please)

Maybe he’s just straight and I’m misreading it. Yes. Probably. Aren’t most people straight? Is that still a fact? (I highly doubt it, given how boring that must be.) But he winked at me. Somewhat prompted, I’ll give him that, but it was still a fucking wink.

I wink in texts to Dev and Niall too, though, but that’s different, isn’t it? I’d never snog either of them (especially fucking Dev), but hey. If unfaced internet boy asked for a snog, would I?

I’m too wrapped up and starved for human interaction to properly deal with this.

gaystrell: i will carry on with my threats, snow

There it is. Perfectly biting, while not being entirely rejecting. Maybe I’m better at this than I thought.

Or, perhaps, I’m worse, because even an hour and a half after sending the text, he’s silent.

I remind myself every few minutes that he most likely attends an actual school and has classes, but it makes my chest ache in the most unfair way every time my mobile tempts me with an unrelated notification.

I work myself to the point of moping down in the kitchen, slumping against the fridge whilst watching Vera make tea. She’s relatively silent, knowing better than anybody to leave me to sulk.

“You’re a drama queen,” she tuts, looking over me. Granted, I dress like a slob and borderline haunt this godforsaken mansion, but I feel as though that makes me entitled to being the way I am.

“I’m lonely,” I sigh, head resting against the fridge. It hums beside me, the chromed metal cooling my cheek. “Am I not granted a dramatic spell every now and then?”

“Not unprovoked.”

I set a hand against the handle, then let it drop. I’m not hungry. “What if it was provoked?”

“Is it?”

Instinctively, I pull out my phone and click it on. Nothing. “Perhaps.”

Vera frowns at me, walking over and setting a hand on my arm. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling okay?”

My eyes slowly roll as I push myself off the appliance, standing upright. “Physically, yes. Don’t fuss. It’s just… online shit.”

“You spend too much time on the phone,” she sighs, letting go and going back to the tea as she fixes me a mug. “Don’t you think you’d be happier to disconnect from social media for a day or two? Go on a walk, see nature?”

I snort, looking outside. “And what? Trip and bust open my knee? That’d wind me back up in care for at least a few days.”

“You act like you’re made of paper and glass.” She offers over my mug, letting my fingers wind around the handle before she shakes her head.

“I might as well be,” I huff down before thanking her and blowing on my tea.

Once I leave back up to my room, I realise it's somehow more depressing in here over the kitchen with Vera’s disapproval of technology rantings. At least she’s some sort of company.

As I’m sipping my tea, I go back to scrolling on my laptop as a notif pops up, jarring me with the sound but letting me breathe again.

bi-sammy: why do you know my last name smh

I exhale slowly, smiling to myself.

gaystrell: you commented on my google doc, you idiot

[hartsgold]

“do you feel held by me? do i feel like home to you?”

happy midsommar! 

          some moons have passed since the war’s end, and linhardt has ushered in this new world’s dawn with every bit as much resilience as claude. 

          even in the time he was sure he would spend alone ( beginning each of his age-old struggles anew ), linhardt stood by him. after bearing the brunt of the alliance’s doubts when it came to his former allegiance to the empire, linhardt endures in a land entirely foreign to him. some would call it an impossible feat, but claude would call it a remarkable show of endurance. of fortitude. of dedication and oh, what cowardice not to call it love.

          faiza’s brought them to high ground in the forest, where they can watch the stars swallow the sky. they’re resting in the tall grasses and he revels in the familiar itch of their blades at the back of his neck. when he was a boy, he’d abscond when the stars and the moon rose together, united in a place the sun had held its crown just hours ago. how strange, to see the glittering lights cresting the lands so far from them now –– and thanks to the two of them ( alongside so many other efforts he’s endlessly grateful for ) –– not so far at all. 

          his wyvern makes her rounds just a few feet away, settling into the earth where she curls around her tail. it’s hardly sweeping distance away; faiza is a prideful thing, though she’s been anxious for as long as claude’s known her. she doesn’t care to be far from them, especially not when she can likely sense the ripples of swollen hope in his heartbeat. 

          one of claude’s arms bends behind his head to prop himself up, and the other twines with linhardt’s where their arms rest on his lover’s middle. his thumb brushes across the bone of linhardt’s first knuckle –– distantly, he remembers the way those hands looked while wrapped around those books of spells. on the long end of a battlefield, where the empire would have called this moment unfathomable. where the alliance would have found this union a pipe dream. yet here they are, implausible… defying convention, as they always manage to. and how wonderful it is, to confide in someone with such a bright mind, with such a tender heart. 

          claude turns onto his side to face linhardt as the words breathe air. he shifts the tangle of their hands over linhardt’s chest, wanting to feel his pulse against his wrist. 

          “do i feel held by you?” he reiterates, soft and emphatic. 

          they do the unthinkable, time and time again. it’s clockwork, now. 

          the pretty slope of linhardt’s cheeks strike claude at the core of him. five years ago, he longed to run his palms down the lines of his elegant face. to hold fast at the sight of this man he now knows so well –– that he once imagined knowing as fully as he does would be hoping for too much. ( then again, claude’s never relied on hope. he didn’t then and he doesn’t know. he only has his own conviction, and strength of will to rely on.

           as for the man beside him… well, ‘rely’ is hardly the right word. complete and unhindered trust might be a closer fit. )

        claude smiles. the stars smile too. 

        “what say you put your arms around me and we find out?” only, it’s so much more severe than that. ( does he feel like home, when home has been akin to a stranger for as long as he’s understood the word? ) 

          he scoots closer to linhardt’s side, enough so that they brush shoulders. 

        home is… technically almyra. home is here. home is the love he has of the warm flames and the feasts and of the traditions that seek to connect rather than to harm. his memories of his mother’s challenging eyes and his father’s boisterous laughter, his father’s wyvern’s chirps before faiza’s. home is his heart in the hot sands between the gaps of his fingers. home is the place he hid in only name, from those who would doubt him for it. home is the strange disconnect from him and the people who refused him, isn’t it? if home is here, then isn’t home what forced a wedge between him and his heart? ( that’s not true. for all the distance he’s imposed on himself, he’s allowed himself more. the closeness between himself and linhardt now proves that much with devastating clarity. ) almyra is complicated. that goes without saying; he has his mother’s eyes, and in a place that couldn’t stand the sight of fódlan blood, doesn’t that say enough?

          home –– 

        home is the time in garreg mach where he was understood, for a time, if from a way’s away. home is the alliance’s tethers to him and the will he spread to people who were willing to let their souls touch. home, how odd, is the time he spent at war. 

          because it was war that forced him and linhardt apart in the first place, but it was home that brought them back together. 

          “it’s funny you should ask.” every moment’s short-lived hesitance, every ache before a battle’s inevitable bloodshed, every second he spent wondering how far his strides would carry him before he was forced to crawl again… linhardt has pressed their backs together. he stood behind him and helped him stand straight. 

          claude’s conviction is an unrelenting one. he moves without apology. the sun’s outline from behind the dark sky encircles them when his hand untangles from linhardt’s, reaching for the other’s cheekbone. “ever since we started coming here,” because it’s not their first visit to this wonderful view of the glistening sky. faiza’s carried them away at least three, four times now. and each time linhardt has fallen asleep, they’ve brought him back together. “all i can think about is how much more myself i feel. it’s not that i haven’t felt that way in a while. but when you and i are together, i stand taller than ever. i know that my dream –– that our dream –– every day, we step closer and go further. it’s becoming a reality.”

        in other words, they’re overdue for a kiss. claude makes amends in an instant. 

        it lingers. linhardt’s lips taste of the tea they shared earlier. 

          “i could never have gotten where i am now without you. you’re more than home to me.” claude assures, his voice soft and hard –– intense, not at all underestimating the weight of the words. “i love you. as far as feeling held goes, i hope you can say the same.” whatever they are, whatever they do, however the world wills, they have each other.  “because i’m not letting go. not even if faiza begs me to.” 

[voreboy]

Big Daddy Dominic

[Trigger Warning: Ageplay/Youth Prey]

[Dylan McDermott (left) and Jon Brenthal (right) who serve as inspiration]

So I finally came up with a name for my older (55 year old) Pred character I’ve mentioned previously and who I’ve used as the basis for Ageplay Fantasy 2 and Ageplay Fantasy 4. I’m calling him Dominic Venturi, an Italian-American billionaire corporate tycoon. Like T-Bone, his target prey would be youth and ageplay Littles/Middles. 

CHARACTER STATS

Dominic Venturi

Species: Human male

Age: 55

Ethnicity: Italian

Hair color: Black

Eye color: Blue

Height: 6’2

Marital Status: Married

Predator type: Non-Fatal vore, Oral vore, Same-size vore

Recap: Ageplay Fantasy 2 (MID-LIFE CRISIS)

This centers around an older man, someone in his mid-40 to mid-50s but exceptionally good looking for his age. I’d imagine him a wall-street banker or CEO of his own company. He’s someone who’s been obsessed with order, structure and discipline his entire life. Possibly coming from a military family he was pushed to and excelled in academics and athletics from an early age all the way through college. He has a life that is based on appearance rather than substance — wealth, real-estate, industry recognition and a stable, (albeit loveless) marriage.

He’s always been one to shy away from vices. Don’t drink too much, don’t stay out too late, don’t take unnecessary risks, etc. But his one golden rule has always been a strict diet, because his achievements would be nothing if he were to be fat-shamed. However, as the stress and anxiety of maintaining such as life-style has weighed heavily on him, especially over the past decade, and his self-discipline has been steadily waning. He gives himself over to listening to his dick and his stomach over logic and reason. He’s drinking a bit more, staying out a bit later, taking a bit more risk (particularly with extramarital affairs) and most significantly, his once solid abs are rounding out into a firm pot belly. He’d desperate to feel alive at this stage in life and recklessness is the only thing doing it for him.

One day, during a newly proposed “bring your kid to work day” is where I enter the picture. Having a predisposition to wander and explore when no one is looking, I leave my parent’s side and being to explore offices on the varying levels on the building until I make my way to the would-be predator’s executive suite. It turns out I’ve interrupted his lunch as I see him shoveling a fist-full of food into his mouth. Collecting himself, he stands and maneuvers around his desk to greet me and I get a good look as his pot-belly stretching his perfectly tailored suit. I introduce myself as the son of one of his numerous underlings and came across his suite while exploring the building. He chuckles at my wanderlust and invites me to stay and keep him distracted, at least until I’m retrieved by an angry parent.  

The Boss and I talk work, school, dreams and life-goals as I flip through channels on his enormous flat-screen TV. I end up settling on some classic Looney Tunes animation, always amused by the various characters being swallowed whole by each other. As we watch, a type of fight or flight instinct is triggered in the pit of the older man’s stomach. A nonsensical daydream of swallowing me in the same way as depicted on screen rapidly becomes an unrelenting obsession. He brings the unusual fantasy up to me and I indulge him since I’ve never been able to discuss it with anyone else up until that point. As recklessness overtakes reason (and his mouth begins to water) he takes of his suite jacket and begins to unbutton his dress shirt before taking me by the crown of my head and single-mindedly trying to wedge it into his open mouth.

Although he considers he could be having a psychotic break with reality, he continues to funnel my upper body into his ever-stretching maw, consuming me slowly. Like an anaconda, his throat, rib-cage and stomach all expand as I descend into the pit of his stomach, which balloons rapidly into an enormous wrecking ball-like shape. The gluttonous predator then clutched the sides of his rotund belly and unleashes a wall-shaking belch.

He now has the dilemma of explaining the situation to his employee and his wife.

Recap: Ageplay Fantasy 4 (DINNER DATE)

The scene opens up with me already in the swollen belly of the studly middle-aged Pred. In an effort to keep our new-found friendship a secret, he helped me orchestrate a way we could spend the weekend together. I tell my parents I’ll be spending the weekend at a friends and will get a ride immediately after school Friday. In reality, the Pred is the one who picked me up and swallowed me whole the second we arrived as his home. The kick is, he made sure to swallow me with my cell phone in hand so we could be able to text each other consistently throughout the weekend.

Part of the reason Pred was sure to swallow me with my phone was because a dinner with my parents and his wife had been prearranged this weekend as well. The thought of a casual dinner with all of them while I stewed in his rotund belly was about as much excitement as he and I could bare.

Once Pred’s wife came home on Friday night, she immediately chastised him for overeating again once she saw the size of his engorged mid-section, oblivious to the fact the son of his employee/neighbor was currently occupying it.

The night of the dinner, Pred and his wife dressed up in their finest attire (with Pred having to use some of his larger sized designer wear for the occasion) as do my parents. The two couples meet at the restaurant and exchange greeting. My parents politely point out Pred’s rapid weight gain over the past few days, which he eagerly plays up as a talking point while his wife fervently but politely rebukes claiming to be concerned for his health. The situation causes a stir in Pred’s pants like no other, a good indication of how the night will continue.

Once seated and having ordered their food, the two couples converse to continue getting to know one another more intimately. My parents discuss both work and hobby related interests as does Pred’s wife. Pred and I send periodic texts to each other throughout the night; Pred gets a tingle in his groin every time he gets a vibration in his stomach from my phone.

At one point one of my parents actually calls me just to check in, not excusing themselves from the table. My heart sinks as does Pred’s when we realize my voice would mostly likely carry at least somewhat from the pit of his stomach. I let it go to voicemail once as my parent lament about how I never answer my phone. Pred takes the opportunity to excuse himself to use the restroom and waddles away from the table as I subtly bounce within his belly.

Once inside the restroom, Pred strokes his stomach while simultaneously texting me how perversely stimulating the entire situation is. My parent calls once again and this time I answer. Pred stands around the stalls straining to hear my muffled voice from the pit of his own stomach.

At the end of the evening, the two couples say their goodbyes. After arriving at home, Pred and his wife have a particularly intense love-making session as a direct result of Pred’s increased libido. Once the wife is asleep, Pred and I continue to text one another as he lounges awake in bed.

This character will be exclusive to the Safe-verse. Feel free to submit questions about him (but observe the rules).

deviantART | RP Guide (18+ ONLY/STR8 Guys Welcome) | Ageplay Guide | Vore Multiverse Guide | Send Me Anons (But State Your Age)

[queenieofaces]

On being unrequited

This post has been cross-posted to The Asexual Agenda.  On a completely unrelated note, today is my fifth anniversary of writing for TAA!

Content warnings: mention of suicide in a fictional work, discussion of trauma messing with conceptions of the future and relationships, brief mention of abusive relationships (with no specifics),  some crappy statements about the insufficiency of aces in relationships

Let me start by saying that this is a topic that I’m still puzzling out how to talk about, but let me start here: It’s hard to overstate the impact reading Cardcaptor Sakura had on me as a teenager.  It wasn’t the first piece of media I’d consumed that depicted women in love with other women (I’d been in a production of The Children’s Hour, a play in which the lesbian character, predictably, commits suicide), but I think it may have been the first story I’d read that had (non-adult) girls crushing on other girls.  For those not familiar with Cardcaptor Sakura, it’s a manga (later made into an anime, retitled Cardcaptors in the US) about a magical girl named Sakura.  Sakura’s best friend, Tomoyo, is in love with Sakura, but she knows that Sakura doesn’t return her feelings, so she spends much of the series supporting Sakura from the sidelines and cheering her on as she pursues other relationships.

Part of the reason this manga had such a huge impact on me was because I was reading it just as I was realizing that I had a crush on one of my very close friends.  I was absolutely certain that said friend didn’t return my feelings, so I decided to be a Tomoyo and cheer her on from the sidelines.  As long as she was happy, I would be happy.

These types of unrequited crushes are obviously very, very common in wlw media (and in real life).  I have a playlist of wlw music, for example, and while there are a couple of songs about ladies mutually crushing on other ladies, it’s much more common to have songs like “Sleepover” by Hayley Kiyoko or Mary Lambert’s cover of “Jessie’s Girl” or  “Jenny” by Studio Killers (although that one, at least, ends well* in the MV).  Kataomoi (片思い; more or less “unrequited feelings”) is a pretty common trope in Japanese f/f content as well, especially if it’s set during high school or middle school.  (Azumanga Daioh, which was also formative in my teens, has Kaorin crushing on Sakaki for the entire manga.)  I didn’t read a book with a girl who had a girlfriend, let alone one who still had a living girlfriend at the end of the story, until I was in my twenties.  (I started finding books with endgame m/m couples in my early teens, for comparison, although I also read a lot of books with m/m couples who broke up or died before the end.)  While it’s easier to find happy f/f couples in media now, I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that the idea that if you’re a woman who is attracted to other women, many of your crushes are likely to be unrequited still permeates wlw spaces and media content.

This idea has heavily shaped the way that I approach relationships.  A few months ago I was talking to a friend who said that she found the idea of being friends with someone she had a crush on without ever saying anything really painful.  Never saying anything is my baseline.  I’m pretty much exclusively attracted to people I’m close friends with, so my desire to Not Make It Weird way overweighs my desire to say anything.  I’d much rather have a close friend I have inappropriately big feelings for (and never act on) than make someone else uncomfortable and potentially jeopardize our friendship.  So, unless I’m pretty certain that they feel the same way or the situation is becoming untenable as is, I don’t make it weird.  I’ve had people tell me that’s sad when I’ve mentioned it, but I don’t think it’s sad.  I’m not a martyr or “suffering in the friendzone” (ew)--it just is what it is.

Now here’s where I feel like I don’t quite have the words to talk about this yet: I think there’s a similar phenomenon in ace communities.  I’ve talked before about the puddle problem: “Sure, there may be other fishies in the sea, but, personally, my sea is more like a puddle and most of the fishies would rather hang out in a real body of water.”  Beyond that, I feel that there’s often an assumption of incompatibility or unrequited feelings that aces carry into relationships.  There’s the endless issue of sexual incompatibility, of compromise, and all the different tools we’ve made to get around that.  (This isn’t even touching some of the nastier comments about asexual people “inflicting themselves” on “normally sexual persons.”**)   There’s, as Laura describes it, “a kind of wariness of situations where I might be expected to have sexual feelings or motivations, because then people might want something from me that I can’t give.”  Even in friendships there’s the fear that you’ll never be #1 or that your friends will prioritize their other relationships over you.  There’s often an assumption that you’re going to have to deal with being insufficient (because you don’t experience attraction you should) or with your friends and/or partners prioritizing relationships differently than you (because they’re not getting enough/the right things from your relationship).

Even in ace/ace relationships, I assume that we’ll have incompatible desires--that someone, to some degree, will be unrequited.  There tends to be an assumption that aces are inherently compatible with other aces, but, as someone who has been in relationships with multiple aces, I can say that is not true.***  Here’s a fairly innocuous example: I am not a very cuddly person.  I used to be much cuddlier, but I’ve gotten more touch-averse with age and substantial trauma.  I sometimes have days where I don’t want anyone to touch me, regardless of how casual or glancing it might be.  Needless to say, this can be a major stumbling block if I’m in a relationship with someone who expresses affection physically or who wants consistent physical affection from me.

I tend to assume that any relationship (romantic or not) I have is going to have some level of uneven feelings.  Either I am attracted to them and they are not to me (the Tomoyo problem), or they are to me and I am not to them (the insufficiency problem), or we’re both attracted to each other but in different ways (the physical affection incompatibility problem).  Heck, I designed a model of relationships to help navigate relationships where feelings are imbalanced.  And this is, again, not something I find particularly sad or pity-worthy.  I want different things than other people, not through any fault of mine or theirs, but just because that is how it is.  This is my baseline.

When it becomes a problem is when decide to settle for what I can get--when I look at my tiny puddle and think, “Well, I’m never going to get anything better than this.”  That can be bad when it’s compelled me to stay in abusive relationships, but even in healthy relationships that assumption isn't fair to me, and it’s also not fair to the people who matter to me. I often assume that I care more about other people than they care about me, so I’m sometimes surprised and unsure how to react when people demonstrate that they do actually care for me.  I am much better equipped to deal with having inappropriately big feelings for someone than I am to deal with underestimating someone else’s feelings for me.  I also have the fun PTSD symptom of a sense of foreshortened future.  Specifically, in my case, I rationally know that the future is coming, since that’s generally how time works, and I can plan for it, but I have no gut feeling that the future is real.****  (If this sounds like a really weird experience, I promise you that it 100% is.)  I tend to assume that I have no permanency in other people’s lives.  Other people will move on and find other relationships, and I’ll be there to cheer them on from the sidelines (or just...not be there, I guess; it’s not that I’m expecting something to happen to me so much as that I struggle to imagine my future self).  I’m often caught off guard whenever anyone demonstrates that they’re expecting me to be in their life in a tangible way in the future.

I have no solutions here and no real conclusion, since, as I said, I’m still trying to find the words to talk about this.  I guess the point that I’m trying to get at is the extent to which I carry the assumption of imbalanced feelings (being unrequited? unrequitedness?) into all of my relationships.  I don't know how common this experience is, and I don’t think it’s a uniquely ace experience (as I said at the beginning of this post, it’s a trope in a lot of f/f content).  In my case at least, I think it is shaped by my sitting at the intersection of aceness and queerness and trauma.  I don’t think I can fully say it’s a good thing or a bad thing--on one hand, I’m pretty prepared to do the relationship negotiation dance at any moment (I have CHARTS and KEYWORDS), but on the other hand, I often have to actively counter my own baseline assumptions, which can be skewed in weird and negative ways.

*Well, I mean, if you consider “turning into a tiger and carrying your love to safety” to be “ending well.”

**Dan Savage, who made the comments in the link, has softened signficantly in his stance on asexuality, but I think it’s important to remember that these sorts of comments were coming out right around the time I started coming out to people, and so I had to directly address them when people brought them up (which, to be clear, they did; Dan Savage was weirdly widely read in my college friend group).  While I rationally know I’m not inflicting myself on anyone, when you hear something enough times, it does sort of dig its claws into you.  Or maybe that’s just me.

***Here is where I recommend one of my favorite acefics, “’Til Break of Day.”  I’m not involved in The Hobbit fandom at all, but it’s genuinely one of the best depictions of an incompatible ace/ace relationship that I’ve read.  Check it out if you’re so inclined.

****At some point maybe I’ll bite the bullet and write a proper post on queer futurity instead of just yelling about it incoherently to my friends.  Maybe.

[fromthe-seoul]

Seventeen Ways to Succeed in College: Do Your Reading

“neither of us bought the expensive textbook but there is only one copy in the library and it can’t leave the building”

genre: fluff

words: 1.9k

a/n: welcome to the first in a new series; seventeen ways to succeed in college! we begin with our beloved leader, s.coups, who is honestly a joy to write. i hope you all enjoy this new endeavor, and let me know what you think!

The first week of classes is always an unfortunate shitstorm of finding rooms, poring over syllabi, and deciding which textbooks are worth going broke over. In an executive decision, you had decided that your microeconomics textbook just did not make the cut, and as a result, you would be spending a solid hour in the library every other day to do your reading. Thankfully, your professor had anticipated that the majority of you were without books for at least the first week, and you were going to take advantage of every scanned-in page you could. 

Whoever came up with the idea that college textbooks should single-handedly have the ability to make a student go broke can go die in a very long, very deep hole. Whoever decided that there could be only one copy of said expensive textbook on reserve in the library can also be subjected to a long, torturous existence. 

Alas, the kindness of professors only lasts so long, and you tried to make as little noise as possible shuffling through the stacks of books, on a long hunt for the elusive economics textbook. After consulting both the librarian and the online catalogue, you knew you were in the right aisle, but after craning your neck sideways to read the titles, you came upon a solitary empty slot...right where your textbook should be. It took everything in you not to swear loudly in the middle of the deadly quiet study floor. 

After taking a moment to compose yourself and not commit a minor crime, you resigned yourself to having to bullshit your way through discussion this week and headed for the stairs. However, out of vague curiosity and boredom, you decided to peek through the windows of the private study rooms as you walked by. Several project groups were already having disagreements, and you shuddered at the thought of having to deal with something so asinine this early in the semester. Yet amidst all the stressed out students, in the very last study room before the door, you spotted a vaguely familiar mop of messy black hair, accompanied by sleepy brown eyes and a jawline to die for. Your feet stopped in their path and you inched closer to the window. 

Inside the tiny little room sat a boy from your discussion (...Seungcheol? Was that his name?) and on the table, open to the first chapter, was the textbook you were desperate to get your hands on. Without thinking, you gently rapped your knuckles against the wood before twisting the handle and slipping into the room. 

“Hey...Seungcheol?” you exclaimed as said boy craned his neck to see who was invading his study room. A light of recognition flashed in his pupils and he granted you a gummy smile (which you tried to brush away with the flip flop of your heart).

 “Hey, _____! Are you looking for the econ textbook?” 

He gestured to the chair beside his own and you inwardly sighed in relief before flopping down. Seungcheol had been nothing but sweet for the few weeks you had known him within the realm of your discussion section. On the first day, he lent you a pen since you (like a true upperclassman) forgot a writing utensil. And it was a nice pen, and he didn’t even remind you to give it back. It was perhaps unnatural and slightly unbelievable how nice he was to you, but if anyone was going to have the textbook at this moment, you were glad it was him. 

“Yeah,” you sighed, “this class just isn’t worth the hundred and fifty dollars for a book I’ll never use again.”

“Same here, I figured I’ll just come here every time we have reading, but I don’t mind sharing!” He chuckled, and you couldn’t help but join him, hoping that whatever good karma you had apparently racked up to reward you with two hours with a hot, nice boy every week wouldn’t come back to bite you in the ass. Perhaps sharing one copy of a library textbook wouldn’t be so bad. 

So began your weekly meetups with Seungcheol. Every Sunday and Wednesday you would snag the empty study room at the end of the hall and settle in with a nice long brain-melting chapter of economics. It felt natural, with Seungcheol’s easygoing nature it was less monotonous and you felt less like smacking your forehead with the book trying to read about GDP and supply and demand curves. If one of you struggled with a concept, it was an unspoken rule for the other to try and explain the best they could, and if not, the both of you would just accept defeat until next class. 

Slowly but surely, these meetups turned into study sessions even beyond economics. You learned that Seungcheol was an elementary education major and loved working with kids. 

(“Why are you even in this class then? It has nothing to do with teaching.”

“Listen, I just need a math and science credit.”)

It also turned into sneaking food into the library for the long hours ahead, and even cups of coffee with enough talent and luck. 

(“How did you even get that cup in here without spilling? Your backpack doesn’t even have pockets!”

“What can I say, I have an exceptional sense of balance. Now hurry before I spill it all over my computer.”)

Sometimes you even bagged the idea of studying altogether and used the oversized computer monitor for purposes completely unrelated to education.

(“An hour-long vine compilation? Are you serious right now, Seungcheol?”

“I have had eight-year-olds yelling in my ears all day, I  deserve this.”)

Somewhere between him buying you your favorite candy to snack on and you lending him your earbuds when his broke on the bus, the universe shifted slightly. Not drastically, but just enough where you noticed, like someone shifted all the furniture four inches to the left. Just enough to catch your knee on the sofa. 

You suddenly became dreadfully aware of Seungcheol’s constant attention to you. Your heart began to flutter and nearly cave in whenever he would gaze at you with that beautiful smile. His thoughtfulness made you feel special, and even when in the worst mood Seungcheol could bring mirth to your lips. Sometimes, only when you were quick enough, you could catch him studying you with a curious expression amidst his features. You’d glance his way and his eyes would revert back to their signature sleepiness, and against your will, your cheeks would burn with inexplicable heat. Those traitors.

There was no “aha!” moment, no magical realization that you liked Seungcheol, that you like liked him. It would come and go in waves of your stomach dropping whenever his puppy eyes were trained on you, when you snuggled yourself into the cologne-tinged hoodie he wordlessly gave to you when he saw goosebumps on your arms, when he remembered minute little details you had spouted on a whim once. You weren’t quite sure what to do with this new information. Seungcheol never once mentioned a girlfriend; he was seemingly preoccupied in keeping track of his twelve closest friends, who, in your mind, hadn’t yet mastered the art of self-sufficiency yet. But the way he smiled when he recounted all their crazy antics made you curious to meet these boys. You wondered half-heartedly if he had told them about you, but brushed that pesky thought aside almost as quickly as it came. Why would he tell his brothers about little old you?

Soon the leaves began to fall from their branches, the sun hidden earlier and earlier, and exams were looming; the unspoken month of communal exhaustion and giving up taking its toll on everyone you see on the sidewalk was upon you. With the final economics exam taking up a large portion of the stress emanating from your body, you were holed up in the library more often than usual, Seungcheol usually joining you in fighting for a study room amidst the hundreds of people looking for a quiet place to break down. He fed your caffeine monster with enough coffee to power a marathon runner, and in exchange, you provided enough snacks to feed an entire soccer team after a championship game. Your system just worked, and the stability it brought you was enough to make you think there might be a light at the end of the tunnel called finals week. 

Seventeen hours before your final economics exam, late in the night after most sane students had abandoned their studying to finally collapse facedown into bed, the two of you sat in your usual room. The well-worn textbook rested on the table, witness to the birth and growth of a beautiful friendship, and perhaps silent receiver of the mourning of unrequited feelings. You stared blankly, body exhausted and mind drained. It didn’t seem like this would be the last time you would “have to” meet up with Seungcheol, the vague guise of sharing a textbook long gone. You didn’t want to think about what would happen after you left the room, after the exam was over, after you finally got to rest. 

Would Seungcheol still want to be your friend? Would he still give you his hoodies, bring you coffee, and tell you bad jokes? 

“So.” The boy sitting opposite you broke the silence, shaking you out of the spiral of negativity and bringing your attention to his face. His face was sallow, dark circles framing his eyelids, and his grin twisted wistfully, wrenching your heart in a way you didn’t think would hurt that much, but it did. 

“I’m kind of kicking myself for waiting so long to ask you this, but now I realize I’ve run out of time.” 

You gave him a quizzical look; he was never one to hold back in asking you anything. You wanted to respond, but nerves and the burn of your parched throat stopped you. Nevertheless, he continued.

“This semester, I was fully prepared to absolutely hate my life, but you managed to brighten it to the point where even my friends were asking who you were, and they didn’t even know you existed.” He chuckled wryly, casting his gaze to his fidgeting hands. “I’ve never been very good at expressing my feelings, and I hope I’m not ruining our friendship by asking if you’d like to go out with me.”

All at once it seemed like the air whooshed out of you. Your eyes felt like they would pop out as you snapped your head up to look at him. Your mind reeled as it tried to process the idea of your huge crush actually reciprocating your feelings, but Seungcheol seemed to take your shock as rejection. He quickly began to backpedal, but you would sooner fail every single one of your exams than let this slip by.

“Nonononono, Seungcheol, no,” you interrupted, frantically shaking your hands to prove your point, “I would love to go out with you, I promise.” 

You watched as his expression molded from horror to relief, his shoulders sagging, then shaking with self-deprecating laughter. His hands rubbed across his face, eyes peeking out at you with the smallest smile, which you tried to return amidst running a hand nervously through your hair. 

“Well,” he began, tucking his notebooks and pencil into his backpack, “how about we start tomorrow? After we both pass this goddamn exam?” His radiant, gummy smile was one you could never refuse. 

“Absolutely,” you agreed resolutely, following suit and shutting the textbook gently. 

It was finally time to go home and get some rest, for the big day ahead was now one to look forward to.

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: The Darkness Within (9/?)

Summary: When washed-up paranormal investigator Rum Gold meets Belle French, he does not quite know what to make of her claim of a supernatural presence in her life, but sensing her genuine fear, he begins to investigate. What he uncovers shakes the cynicism he has so long held to its very core, and he calls in the help of disgraced ex-priest Father Macavoy to help him lay some demons to rest…

A slow burn, eventual rumbellavoy. The rating may increase in later chapters.

Rated: T

[One] [Two] [Three] [Four] [Five] [Six] [Seven] [Eight] [AO3]

====

Content warning for this chapter: references to attempted suicide and prescription drug abuse

Please note: Dormex is a fictional medication, any similarities to existing drugs are entirely coincidental.

====

Nine

The afternoon after he had spoken to Joseph in the morning found Gold in the pharmacy on a completely unrelated errand, thoughts of the supernatural far from his mind as he searched for his usual brand of toothpaste, which appeared to have vanished from the shelves. It was only when he heard the beginnings of, not a dispute, but definitely a pointed discussion, that his attention was drawn out of the immediate environs and back into the periphery.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t sell you that many in one batch,” Tom Clark, the pharmacist, was saying.

It was the other voice that caught Gold’s attention, because having spent so much time with its owner over the past couple of days, he would recognise it anywhere.

“Please.” Belle sounded wrecked, her voice hoarse. “Please, I need this strong a dose. I can handle it, believe me.”

“Miss, I’ll lose my license if I sell you that many. One pack at a time, that’s your max. I don’t want you to do yourself harm.”

“Please,” Belle begged. “I used to take prescription Dormex, that’s triple the strength of these and I was on a double dose.”

Gold slipped around the end of the aisle so that he could see the counter. Belle was standing there, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest as if she was trying to physically hold herself together. Tom gave her a sad, sympathetic smile and pushed the pile of sleeping pill boxes off to one side.

“Miss, I suggest that you go to the doctor and get him to put you back on Dormex if you’re having trouble sleeping.”

Belle shook her head. “No, you don’t understand… I just want a good night’s sleep for once in my life.”

She looked up at that moment and saw Gold standing off to one side. The dark circles under her bloodshot eyes were even more pronounced than they had been before, and Gold could tell that she had not slept the past two nights since he saw her last at the diner. She left the shop without another word, stalking past him with shoulders hunched, protecting herself from whatever might be out there. Tom watched her go, then gave Gold a worried look.

“D’you think I ought to call Hopper?” he said. “When someone looks that desperate and tries to buy that many sleeping pills…”

Gold shook his head. “No. I don’t think she has any intention of doing herself harm. She just needs some sleep. Whether she’ll get it or not is a different matter.” He paid for his toothpaste and followed Belle out of the shop. It took him a little while to find her as he had no idea which direction she might have gone in, but he decided that going towards the library was probably the best idea, and sure enough, she was sitting on the bottom step of the staircase that led up to her little apartment, still curled up on herself.

“I take it you heard my little performance in the drug store,” she muttered, not looking up at him and addressing his feet and the butt of his cane.

“Yes.”

“I’m not trying to kill myself.” Her voice was hard and brittle, and it sounded as if she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“I didn’t think that you were. But you are desperate, and desperate people do desperate things that they might not always think through entirely. May I?”

He indicated the step beside her and Belle slid to the side to allow room for him without a word. He settled next to her, resting his cane between his knees.

“I’ve never heard of Dormex,” he said, by way of continuing the conversation.

“It’s very new. I was on the clinical trials, it’s only just been approved for mainstream release. It’s a very powerful sleeping drug, about as near as you can get to full on surgical sedation without going intravenously.” She sighed, but she still did not look at him, instead staring out into the middle distance. “When I started sleepwalking, it was suggested that I try sleeping pills to really knock me out properly so I could get a good night’s rest. Because sleep is the time when your body rests and recharges and repairs itself, but if you sleepwalk then you’re expending all your energy on being up and active whilst you’re asleep, so you don’t get the proper rest you should be getting. That was the problem I had. Of course, when I was younger I just thought it was straight up somnambulism, I didn’t realise that all the rest of the freaky stuff was happening.”

“Did it work?” Gold asked.

Belle nodded, then shook her head. “It worked for a little while. Every time I tried a new pill, it would work for about a month or two but then the sleepwalking would start again and I started getting side effects. I think that was the Dark One trying to fight against this drug that was making me so heavy and lethargic and physically unable to get up and do its bidding. So I kept getting stronger and stronger pills, larger and larger dosages until I was at the very limit of what I could take over the counter and on prescription safely. My doctor couldn’t understand how my body could be so averse to restful sleep; he said he’d never seen someone as active in their sleep as I was. That was around the time of the fifteen miles with broken glass in my feet incident. Then came Dormex. The two months of that trial, I had the best sleep I’d ever had. Before or since.”

“Why did you stop taking it?”

“The trial finished and my insurance wouldn’t cover it on prescription.” Belle let out a long sigh. “So that was the end of Dormex, and since then, nothing’s even come close to it. So in the end I stopped taking the sleepers altogether, because they just weren’t working. Now though…”

“You just want to sleep.”

“It’s more than that. I just want to sleep without fear. Unlike most other people who take part in sleeping drug trials, I don’t have insomnia. I have no trouble falling asleep. I can lay down and put my head on the pillow and I’ll be off within a few minutes. But I don’t want to fall asleep. When I stay awake it’s by choice. I haven’t slept since I woke up in your garden because I’m just so afraid of it happening again. The thing inside my head, the Dark One – it’s getting stronger, I can feel it. Perhaps because it’s now where it wants to be. All the time before, it’s focussed all its energy on trying to get north. Now it is north, and it can do whatever the next stage is.”

Gold really didn’t want to think about what that next stage might be, and he thought again of the handprint on his study window. It was probably time to come clean.

“Belle, I have to say this. That night I found you in the morning, that wasn’t the first time you’ve been to my garden in your sleep.”

She looked at him then, her gaze sharp despite her obvious wearing fatigue.

“What?”

“You came the night before as well, after our first conversation in the bar.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me? What happened?”

“Well, I didn’t know it was you. I didn’t even know that you’d been until I found a handprint on my window that had definitely not been there before.”

“God, Gold, you’re freaking me out and I’m the one who did it. How did you know that it was me?”

“Fingerprints matched.”

“You know, I’m pretty sure it’s highly unethical if not illegal to take someone’s fingerprints without their permission but I’m going to let that slide.” Belle ran a hand through her limp hair. “Wow. That’s… I don’t even know what to say. That’s scary.”

“It is a bit, yes.”

“Well, at least now you know why I won’t go back to sleep.”

“I know. But I’m not worried about your midnight excursions into my garden.” That was a lie, Gold was extremely worried about her nocturnal visits but he figured that thus far she had not actually made it into his house so he was fairly safe from whatever intentions towards him that she might have had. “I’ve had an idea.”

Belle looked at him warily. “Go on.”

“I was speaking to an old friend of mine. He lives in England but we did some work together a few years ago, back when I was still working. He’s something of a specialist in cases like yours.”

“Cases like mine? Can I meet this specialist?”

“I’m not sure that would be entirely a good idea, he’s not actively practising anymore and I don’t want you to freak out.”

“Gold, I’ve been permanently freaking out on a subconscious level ever since I was twelve and I realised that there was something very wrong with me. I am never not freaking out. I’m freaking out right now but I’m too tired to actually show it.”

Gold conceded that point.

“So who is this friend of yours and what does he do?” Belle asked. For all her fear and internal freaking out, she seemed calm and composed, and interested by what he had to say.

“His name’s Joseph Macavoy and he used to be a priest.”

“A priest? What does a priest…” She tailed off. “Good lord. Do you really think I’m being possessed by a demon?”

“I’m not sure what I think just yet,” Gold said, trying not to commit himself to anything before he’d been able to do some more research and experimentation. “I think that I’m going to have to accept that it might be a possibility, and one that I would like to prove conclusively true or false before I move onto the next hypothesis.”

In spite of it all, Belle gave a little giggle.

“From what I know of you, Mr Gold, I think only you could turn demonic possession into something so harmless and scientific sounding.”

“Thank you. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but thank you.”

“So, tell me what did Joseph have to say?”

“He advised us to communicate with whatever it is in your mind directly. Which is why I want you to sleep tonight and try to let it come to the surface.”

“How am I going to communicate with it if I’m asleep?” Belle pointed out.

“Well, it’s a fairly crude solution, but I want to try it. Right down three questions on a big sheet of paper and stick it to your bedroom door so that it’s the last thing you see before you close your eyes and the first thing that you see when you open them. With any luck, the subconscious thing should notice them and take them in, and answer them, and you might have answers when you wake up. Or if it’s feeling particularly helpful then it might write down the answers for you.”

“Or another hypnotism session,” Belle said. Her voice was ponderous, she was evidently giving the matter serious consideration. “When I sleep I don’t remember anything, but even before I blacked out in the session with Dr Hopper, I was remembering things that I wouldn’t ordinarily recall. It might bring up some kind of repressed knowledge.”

“I’m willing to try anything to get to the bottom of this if you are,” Gold said plainly. Belle nodded her agreement.

“Yes. I’m willing. What do you want me to ask myself?”

“These three things: ‘What is your name?’ ‘How old are you?’ ‘What are you looking for?’”

“Got it.” Belle stared down at their shoes again for a long time, then finally looked back at Gold. “Do you think that this is going to work?”

“I have no idea, but I think we ought to try it. If it doesn’t, then we’ll just try something else.”

Belle smiled weakly. “Thank you. For your dedication. And for, well, listening. I guess we’ll just have to see what happens tonight.”

“We shall see.”

Gold hoped that the experiment would bear fruit, and he very much hoped that he would not find Belle in his garden come the next morning. Although, he amended, if she could tell him the answers to those three questions then perhaps it would be worth it, for both of them.

[beckettsthoughts]

any/all of the trans journey questions you like but haven't already answered!!!

Thank you so much, anon! I’ve already answered a few, so I’ll go through the other questions I like from the list. There’s only a couple I missed out because they didn’t quite grab my interest in the same way, so here is (almost) everything about my trans journey.

1. How did you choose your name?

Well, I made a list of names I liked on Google docs, spent a few weeks thinking through each option, and somehow landed on the one closest to my birthname. In the meantime I discovered I have a serious affinity for names ending in -t or -tt. All of my options fit that pattern, as does my chosen middle name.

3. Do you have more physical dysphoria or more social dysphoria?

Social, for sure. I don’t really get much body dysphoria at all, and while my social dysphoria can be body-related, it’s more about how other people perceive my body than the problems I have with it. My body problems are (almost entirely) unrelated to my trans identity.

8. How would you explain your gender identity to others?

You know how most people think of themselves as men or women, boys or girls, male or female? I don’t. That’s literally it. I don’t, I can’t, think of myself as male or female.

9. How did you come out? If you didn’t come out, why do you stay in the closet? Or what happened when you were outed?

I actually think I came out “officially” when I asked my mother

11. What are your experiences with binding or tucking?

I wear a binder on and off throughout the week! I can wear it more often now because my class hours are shorter at university. I wear it most days, now, at least for the bulk of the day, but it depends on what I’m wearing. I’m actually super excited because I have a new binder arriving in the post next week, which will be a nice break from my two-year-old current binder and also means I can alternate between them.

12. Do you pass?

I don’t even know how passing as non-binary would be quantified, so no. Most people assume I’m a butch lesbian, actually, so while they’re not quite on the money at least they don’t peg me as straight?

15. What labels have you used before you’ve settled on your current set?

When I first came out as non-binary I used she/they pronouns and identified as a demigirl. I really only used that label because my issues with self-doubt were far more pervasive back then. After a short while I switched entirely to using they/them, changed my name and nickname and identified as agender, which has been about two years of my life now.

21. Why do you use the pronouns you use?

I’m not super bothered about pronouns, or at least I wasn’t at the beginning, but she/her feel really grating to me and I’ve never felt any particular connection to he/him either. I looked at neo-pronouns and found they didn’t suit me, but I liked they/them from the start and I’m still confident with those pronouns now.

22. Do your neurodivergencies affect your gender?

Yeah. To be honest, I don’t know if I would be non-binary if I weren’t autistic. My neurodivergence has such a fundamental impact on my perception of the world, especially when it comes to vague societal concepts such as gender. I don’t know if I’d be aro/ace either. That said, I really can’t imagine being any different, and I’m perfectly happy being non-binary and aro/ace despite how difficult both identities can be sometimes.

24. What medical, social, or personal steps have you already taken to start your transition?

Not many! I may like to dress in ways that appear “androgynous”, use a “unisex” name and they/them pronouns, but most people who know me don’t actually know that. They can see my androgynous style, yeah, but I don’t make a habit of correcting people or coming out so I haven’t socially transitioned much at all outside of my friendship group. All of my social media is listed under Beckett and specifies they/them pronouns, but unless people ask me about it then it’s not something I really mention. I’m trying to get better and be more confident about it, but having just moved to a whole new place I found coming out to every single person and having to answer questions about it to be way too tiring for me to handle right now.

32. How do you see yourself identifying and presenting in 5 years?

Honestly? Pretty much the same. I might have a different haircut, and probably a different hair colour, but I’m happy with my identity and presentation right now and I can’t see myself changing anything in the near future.

I’ll probably legally change my name, though. 

36. What, if any, is the difference between your gender identity and your gender expression?

While I spend most of my time in an “androgynous”/“unisex” style, I sometimes present myself as feminine. Not often though, because as much as I sometimes enjoy it, the prospect of people assuming I’m a girl and thinking of me as a woman is not one that makes me feel comfortable in the slightest. I hate it because I know that no matter how many days, weeks, or months people see me solely in my androgynous style, the one time they see me dress more feminine they’re going to immediately realign their idea of me to “a girl”. Mostly, I only present feminine around my close friends because I trust them not to change their opinion of me because of it. 

37. Do you feel more masculine, feminine, or neither?

I’d describe myself as a “neither”, to be honest.

38. What is your sexual and romantic orientation, and what are your thoughts on it?

I am aro/ace, and while I have many complex thoughts on the nature of this identity, I have developed a strong fear of expressing them because of the ever-looming threat of discourse. Sorry, but if you want any nuanced discussion about my aro/ace identity then it will have to be in a private ask or in messenger, I’m not enough of a masochist to discuss it out in the open anymore.

39. Is your ideal partner also trans, or do you not have a preference?

Being aro/ace as previously mentioned, I don’t really have an ideal romantic partner. My ideal platonic partner however, would probably be trans/non-binary. Which is pretty sweet, because my ideal platonic partner exists, and he is my platonic partner. We’re pretty much soulmates, actually.  

41. What is the place (blog, website, forum, IRL space) you get most of your info on being trans or on trans related things?

Definitely Tumblr, but my friends and various IRL LGBT+ groups have also contributed over the years.

42. Do you interact with other trans people IRL?

I mentioned my platonic soulmate, right? Also, like, all my other close friends. It’s a solid yes, from me.

[ana-logical]

Space Facts Part II

Description: Logan doesn’t even realize the little notes are changing him until it’s already too late to stop it... but he doesn’t particularly mind. Sometimes all it takes is being included.

Yesterday had been an honestly horrible day. Thomas had been forced to actually use the math he had learned in high school (who knew that could happen?), and while they had managed to get through it with a little help, he felt awful. What use was he if he couldn’t keep his wits together when faced with basic algebra?

At least he knew there was one thing to look forward to this morning. It has been about a week since the first space fact had appeared on his bookmark, and they still hadn’t let up. Sure enough, the minute he left his room and settled into his favorite armchair, he heard paper crinkle underneath him.

When astronauts are in space, the calluses on their feet fall off because they aren’t walking on them.

Logan smiled and tucked the note into his pocket. He was making a space bulletin board in his room now, he saved each note and pinned them up into a flat library of interesting facts. His favorites were along the top, a few sloppily written notes and his first Space Fact Bookmark.

Pranks had actually denied being the author of the gifts, which at this point wasn’t that surprising. This obviously wasn’t a prank. He was pretty sure it was Dad, who always felt the need to make everyone feel included, even though he had denied it the first day.

Whether he was correct or not, he was happy. He’d thought for a long time that, while the others obviously cared about him, they didn’t really accept him for who he was. Whenever they invited him to something, it was always a cartoon movie night or some other emotion-based activity. They didn’t want to talk about anything substantive. So maybe they liked him, but they never engaged in any of his interests.

But this was different. This was someone acknowledging what Logan enjoyed, and willingly joining in, albeit through anonymous notes. This was a form of interaction he understood.

Your spine straightens in space, so you can get as much as 5 cm taller on the ISS.

Space was so interesting, because there was so much of it to explore. And yet, in all his time reading about the universe, Logan had never experienced this before.

He was really, really starting to like these space facts. As in, he was not only glad that he knew them and that his horizons were expanding, but he also simply enjoyed finding new notes everywhere he looked, proof that somebody cared about his interests.

Every day, without fail, he would look for the next Space Fact with rising spirits. Even Thomas noticed, eventually. “You’re looking a lot happier lately, Logan.”

“Hm. Perhaps.” He glanced around the room, eyes lighting up at the sight of a ‘Hi, My Name Is’ sticker on the banner of the staircase.

By the year 13727, Polaris won’t be the North Star. Vega will.

Well, his outlook on the day was getting better quite quickly. This was, after all, the seventh full day of interesting trivia meant specifically for him.

He seemed to be the only one having a good day, though. Apparently while Logan had been happily consuming space facts and granola for breakfast, Thomas had been turned down for some date or something. Unfortunate.

Affairs of the heart really weren’t Logan’s job, but he could tell that both Roman and Dad were having an utterly horrible morning, while Anxiety was working a very special sort of overtime. Was this when he was supposed to help?

No. He was Logic, he waited until the emotions had died down before stepping in, that was sort of his whole thing. They didn’t need him butting in. He didn’t belong in this conversation.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a whiteboard erected in the corner of the living room. Scribbled in the usual atrocious handwriting that could belong to any one of the others, scrawled across the middle of the board, were a cluster of words.

Astronaut means “star sailor.”

He smiled. Right, maybe he belonged more than he thought.

“Hey, Thomas,” the words burst from his mouth before he really and truly thought about it. “I don’t think it was so much that you did anything wrong, so much as that they didn’t have time for any sort of relationship, like they told you when they turned you down.”

Anxiety raised an eyebrow at him. “That’s ridiculous. He stumbled over his words, like, six times trying to ask them out. They probably thought he had no idea how to date someone.”

“Logically, most people with similar characteristics to them think that’s actually very cute when it happens. Morality, wouldn’t you agree? Thomas probably made their day.”

The Dad side raised his head. “You think?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t be saying it if I weren’t sure.” In fact, he had almost no idea what was going on, but he had a pretty good chance of being correct. “And as for the reason they turned you down, I would hazard a guess that it had nothing to do with the voice crack. You wouldn’t call them a judgemental person, would you?”

“Of course not!” Roman looked affronted at the very idea. “They are a perfectly-”

“Exactly, so what makes you so certain they were judging you?” He smirked. “Meanwhile, the size of their backpack suggests an extremely busy college student, unable to take on additional social responsibilities and choosing to take the very logical step of focusing on their studies before seeking romantic companionship. Therefore, I posit a perfectly rational explanation for the rejection that doesn’t reflect at all on Thomas.”

To his surprise, everyone… kind of seemed to accept that. Anxiety, of course, raised his eyebrows and seemed about to voice another objection, but before he could, Thomas spoke.

“Right. I can’t judge myself on someone else’s life choices.” The little crease between his eyebrows disappeared. “I’d hate it if I turned somebody down, and they thought I didn’t like them, just because I couldn’t do a relationship at that particular time!”

Morality nodded quickly and actually grinned. “And the same may very well be true for the person turning you down today! They may simply have a lot on their plate!”

“And, I mean, they did come right out and tell me that,” the boy added, starting to smile as well. “I’m not about to call them a liar.”

“Who would turn down this face?” Roman smirked and gestured to his own features. “It must have been something entirely unrelated to the specific suitor.”

Logan settled back into his normal role. “So, if we could put aside all this icky emotion…?”

The rest of the day was entirely uneventful, aside from the occasional space fact popping up mysteriously around him. Now that he was certain people saw him as more than just ‘the logical one’ and he could actually contribute more than corrections, he was enjoying the notes even more than before. It had been the fact about the word astronaut that had pushed him into action, after all, even though he had already known the Latin translation. It had just helped to remember that he was a part of the group as much as anyone else.

That night, however, things changed rather abruptly.

He was met at the door by a piece of his own college-ruled notebook paper, neatly separated along the perforated edge, and marked with the normal black sharpie. However, the difference was obvious. The messy letters did not spell out a space fact at all.

Your turn.

[braindamageforbeginners]

Warlocks

Week 4, Day 28, Radiation dose 18, serum infusion #4

I am feeling awful - as I usually do on these days that make me bring me slightly closer to being Captain America, but, I’m still eating and seeing Liam Neeson movies (one of those is a good thing), and I can still recall my blood pressure and heart rate - 144/77, and 68 bpm, so things aren’t too bad. Which is also due in no small part to the mind-numbing amount of drugs and/or black magic holding me together. Which brings up the title of this week’s post; it would not surprise me to learn that my current physicians are dark mages. Faithful readers will recall my constant, obsession with keeping up-to-date and fully-supplied with any necessary medications at any given moment (also, lest anyone think I’m being needlessly addicted to chemicals (although I fully intend to keep a salt-lick of zofran near me at all times, should I survive this), I’m getting weekly, very expensive blood panels - today, my kidney function’s in the low-normal range, as is my potassium)(which might be due to the fact that my alarm didn’t go off and I only had 30 minutes of time to gulp down several cups of water, forget breakfast). And the warlocks here have surpassed expectations on that front. In this particular case, due to a series of mishaps, I was running low on anti-seizure medication, and, before freaking out and calling the original surgical team that prescribed the meds, I figured I’d let the wizards handle it. Good call, that. The entire conversation was: RESEARCH COORDINATOR (who, it should be pointed out, is not one of the Warlocks, just their administrative gate-keeper): You mentioned you needed a prescription refill earlier? SELF: Yeah, uh, keppra, 500 mg twice daily. I can try and get ahold of the charge nurse who originally prescribed it. RC: I think we can handle it. How much do you have left? SELF: I’m good until Thursday or Friday, if you don’t want to call it in until then. RC (giving me a dirty look): No, we like all of our patients to have a weeks’-worth of their meds at any given time. I’ll make a call. Your infusion’s done in - what, two hours? Check the pharmacy in three.

Now, to understand how very spectacularly Twilight Zone-y this all is, you have to realize that I’ve spent sixteen years in the medical industrial complex - usually on the receiving end, but I do have a little insider’s knowledge of the rule book. I have never - ever - heard of getting a prescription that was originally prescribed by one clinician getting renewed by another clinician in less than a day. That just does not happen, in the same way that water has a hard time running uphill. However, in two unrelated episodes within two weeks, the Warlocks have delivered the goods. That is, administratively, the equivalent of spotting a hippogriff and a unicorn in the same month. I’m toying with the idea of asking them for a heroin prescription, but, given how quickly they stomped out my medical marijuana request (not that I’m a major fan, but it helps a lot with those nasty suture headaches), they’re not enablers. But, that is neither here nor there; I walked out with that warm radioactive glow that comes from knowing you are paying people buckets of money to blast you with dangerous, rare forms of radiation in the foolish hope it’ll keep the brain demons at bay (the best those morons in Beverly Hills can manage are colonic cleanses, the pansies). That feeling quickly faded and I started to wilt, so I did head on for a low-dose of deccadron and lots of coffee (pro-tip for anyone reenacting the Cancer Survivor Trail; there’s a Philz Coffee Shop in Encinitas, which, conveniently, is half-way from where I write these tales, and where the magic happens. Thus fulfilled, Dad and I turned East, to see the latest mayhem from the philosopher Neeson. The best that can be said is, if I didn’t suffer a seizure whilst watching this film, it seems unlikely that I’ll suddenly succumb in the middle of a grocery story. Also, it’s nice to see Hollywood treating their aging  action heroes gently and cautiously.

Thus deprived of intellectual sustenance, Dad and I invoked the law of averages and dove into the closest dingy Mexican place we could find, and it did not disappoint. I have no idea how I lived so long without California Burritos (also, it’s possible that The Donald will recognize Mexican Americans as human if he just tries one). Of course, by that time, the early side-effects of the serum infusion were showing up (namely, pain at the injection site spreading along the muscles in my right arm and chest).

And I am, sadly, leaving out many fun and/or horrifying parts of the day in my haste to finish this before I drop into a stupor. That’s another good, recent development; I’ve actually started sleeping again (sort of)(maybe), which is critical for brain health. I slept 18 hour days after my first neurosurgeries, and that just hasn’t happened until very recently; probably due to having to tread water in a rapidly-filling septic tank, lest I be drowned. I don’t know whether it’s the drugs I’ve been prescribed, my adaptation to my situation, such as it is (bearing in mind that my situation is evolving faster than I rationally adapt to it). When you get a cancer diagnosis, you’re forcibly expelled from the human experience, in many ways; it’s only been the last four or so days where my first rational thought of the day hasn’t been, “I’m fucked.” Don’t get me wrong, I’m still scared beyond the capacity for rational thought, I’m sill paranoid I’ll lose some important neurocognitive ability, but I’ll settle for “mostly-intact right now” and “not completely overcome by blinding terror.”

So, tune in tomorrow (unless the experimental super soldier serum turns me into the Hulk or kills me) for discussions on how awesome sleep is, my plans to use technology to improve myself (or at least make myself normal), and the possibility I’ll get some sort of horrific news (or, God forbid, Radiation Oncologist ups my decadron dosage).