#and if tomorrow i woke up and i was no longer butch. i would not longer be the same person i am today

[dykethevvitch]

That post has got me thinking about how the queer community treats butches in general. And studs too, but I ofc have more knowledge, and are more comfortable talking about, the butch experience.

It's either unthinkable to be attracted to a butch, or butches exist only as an object of desire. Neither is accurate, as both ignore the butch's relationship to sexuality and desire. You don't have to like butches or be sexually attracted to us, but you should not treat us as if we are inherently undesirable. And on the flipslide, we are often seen as objects of desire. Not a person who is attractive, but a sexual object who exists for the gratification of a partner.

Gays are soo past upholding gender roles, except for butches. Because don't butches want to be big strong chivalrous men? Don't all butches do physical labor and work on cars and stuff? This ignores that fact that while butches are masculine, and often emulate masculine gender roles, we, the same as cis men, should not be expected to perform these gender roles. And not to mention how this isolates disabled butches who can't uphold these gender roles.

And these are sentiments I have seen expressed by gay people, often gay people who say they don't believe in sexualization and gender roles. Being butch can be so isolating, because as a gender nonconforming person I'm obviously Othered by heterosexual society. But the gay community is not immune to their own anti-butch sentiments. There's a problem with toxic masculinity in butch communities, and while butches are not immune to upholding it, I think it's important to consider how we're pushed in that direction, in the same was cis men are.

In short: butches are people, and while we may choose to uphold certain traditional pillars of masculinity, we are not defined by our masculinity, and our relationship to masculinity is our own to decide.

[velvetvexations]

There's this intuitive feeling around mpsec orientations that are like, "but that's just not what the word means!", but if you really dig in the issue is that orientations don't really make a lot of sense conceptually because they're inherently tied to binary sex.

For instance, I'm a trans woman. Yet, until I get my tits, anyway, if I'm not wearing a big red bow like Ms. Pac-Man it would be completely impossible to guess that just from looking at me. Because trans women are women, a lesbian could date me and keep her lesbian card, at least among trans positive crowds.

For TERFs, this sounds like a win at first, like I'm pointing out a way in which being trans doesn't make sense because if a lesbian is into someone who looks exactly like a cis man she can't be a lesbian, right? Except...cis lesbians have been made fun of, harassed, and terrorized for their masculinity as far back as can be remembered. Even straight women have been put through the ringer if they don't look feminine enough - I will, for the millionth time, point to Chyna - but among lesbians specifically there have been countless women who could plausibly pass for men if they put just a little bit of effort into it, and many did because being butch as hell is something to be celebrated even if they didn't frame their far-end-of-the-scale butchness as wanting to "pass for men". They could have.

So in both cases, trans or cis, being attracted to a woman who is identical to society's idea of a man is not a disqualifier from being a lesbian. "Political" or "mspec" lesbianism, identifying with lesbianism for a reason other than definitionally being attracted solely to people who identify as women, is the only way the idea of being a lesbian makes sense. It's the only way being gay or straight makes sense. Because gender is so arbitrary, there's no way to make it work unless you're willing to enforce a strict binary that very few queer people want.

Like if you think girls can/should only have soft delicate features and wear lipstick and dresses, fine, I guess it's logically consistent to say being a lesbian is physical attraction to a fixed, limited set of features. But if you're willing to broaden your horizons to any extent, what being attracted to a woman means quickly breaks down. A TERF would say it's physical sex that matters and something something AMAB vaginas aren't the same but I'd like to take a Kinsey Detector and scan a lesbian who loves getting strapped by a hyper-masculine butch to see where she lands.

So there are all these situations where we say "still a lesbian", even though logically the people who are into those girls should be plenty capable of being attracted other people. To bring it back to the trans point of view, I don't really understand how a lesbian could be attracted to me and then turn around and say lesbianism is based purely on what gender you're attracted to, while some would be viciously mean to her and accuse her of transphobia (which I would hate) if she weren't into me. Because what if, hypothetically, I woke up tomorrow and said "you know, I think I'm feeling more comfortable thinking of myself as a man these days " - that changes everything over night? That lesbian is no longer attracted to me when I change my pronouns? What if I had already been thinking that and I just didn't say anything about it, was she attracted to a man for a brief period of time?

Gender and how we classify attraction is just very, very arbitrary. Gender abolitionists see trans people as reinforcing gender, but I've always said that if they thought about it for two seconds they'd realize trans people are a deathblow to everything they hate about gender. They can't separate gender from sex so they see it as trans people wanting every girl who's not traditionally feminine to be boys and every boy who's not traditionally masculine to be women.

And, well, that's one reason I hate egg shit because yeah that is actually kinna doing that. It's at least reinforcing pink=girl mentality. Like to be clear, I'm not saying you can't associate girlhood with the color pink, I just think that when a cis man likes the color pink and you go "have you tried estrogen?" you're not just associating the two concepts but actively backing up the societal expectation that to like pink is to be a girl. It's like the difference between associating candy canes with Christmas and being convinced it's somehow already December again when you see peppermints being sold in the middle of March.

But other than that, which I've gone on the record against over and over, trans people are smashing society's concept of gender into pieces. "Orientation" as traditionally thought of must naturally also come down because it rests atop that foundation.

[bigoltrashpile]

196. “Let. Her. Go.” Butch/Reader!! >:3

You just love these angsty ones don’t you?  Anyway, I’m going to change the pronouns because I like having things gender neutral, I hope that’s okay.

You woke up with your head throbbing.  You tried to rub your head, but your hands were stopped.  What?  You looked down and noticed that you were tied to a chair, in a small, cold, stone room.  Shit, where were you?  You tried to look around, but couldn’t move far.

“Boss, they’re up,” a voice said from behind you.  You strained your neck as far as you could, trying to see who it was.  The ropes cut into your skin as you struggled in your bonds.

“Thanks, dumbass, I can see that,” a different voice snapped.  There were footsteps and a man stepped into your field of vision.

You faintly recognized him as the boss of one of the enemy mobs in the city.  You couldn’t remember his name, but that could be because of your pounding headache.

“Good morning, Y/N,” he started.

“How the fuck do you know my name?” you snarled.

“No need to be hostile.  If you cooperate with us, we won’t hurt a hair on your cute little head.  If you’re difficult, however, things won’t go so well for you.”  He pulled out a gun, making sure it was loaded, before slipping it back in his holster.  “Your boyfriend is a very powerful monster, and we want you to help us.”

“Like I would help you,” you tried laughing, but you were sure it came out more nervous than intended.

The man grabbed your chin roughly, yanking your head so you were looking at him.  “You don’t have a choice,” he growled.  He glared at you for a moment longer before releasing you.  You were sure your chin would bruise, but that was the least of your worries.

“Now, we’re going to call that disgusting skeleton, and you’re going to play the role of terrified hostage, which shouldn’t be hard.”  There were a few chuckles from the men behind you.  The man in front of you pulled out a phone-your phone!- and looked through the contacts before finding the one he was looking for.

He put the phone on speaker and you listened to the dial tone.  “This is a stupid idea,” you warned.  “He’s never going to cooperate with you.”

“He will if he ever wants to see you again.”

That shut you up.  Finally, Butch picked up his phone.

“doll?” he asked, obviously scared.  “where’ve ya been?  i’ve been looking everywhere for ya, i’ve been so scared-”

“Hello, Butcher,” the man in front of you interrupted.  Butch stopped his rambling immediately.  “This is Don Lombardi.  Listen to me carefully, and you’ll see your ‘doll’ returned safe and sound.”

“what the fuck do you want, asshole?  where’s Y/N?” Butch demanded.

“They’re right here, with me,” the Don replied coolly.  He held the phone out to you.

“H-hi babe,” you said, voice shaky.  “Um, I hate to agree with this dick, but yeah, this isn’t great.”

There was a sharp intake of breath.  “l e t.  t h e m.  g o.”

Don Lombardi laughed.  “Not until you come and...talk with us.  If you come tomorrow to the docks, we’ll have your precious doll there.”

“i’ll give ya ‘til the count of three,” Butch warned.  “one...”

Lombardi laughed again.  “What are we, children?  Your counting doesn’t scare me.”

“two...”

“You should listen to him,” you warned.

“Not a chance.”

“...three.  time’s up,” he chuckled wickedly.  “Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“close your eyes, baby.”

You quickly squeezed your eyes shut, knowing better than to disobey.  Before anyone could say anything else, there was that familiar feeling of air being displaced.  You heard Butch’s low, dark laugh.  That was the only warning before the room dissolved into chaos.

There was the whistle of magic around you, screams, the sound of blood being splattered.  There were a few gunshots, but none of them came close to hitting you.  A sick cracking noise indicated that bones were snapped, a wet splat that people were being thrown against the walls and ceiling.  You winced.  You were happy your eyes were shut.

A few moments later, all went silent.  The only sound was Butch panting.  He raced to you, and you felt his ceramic hands on your cheeks.  “you can open your eyes again, sweetheart, but look at me.”

You cracked your eyes open, to see Butch’s concerned, blood-covered face inches away from yours.  You didn’t dare look to the sides, knowing what sight would await you.

A few tears escaped your eyes as you smiled shakily at him.  “B-Butch,” you whimpered.

He quickly squeezed you in a hug, burying his face in your neck.  “d-doll, i’m s-so glad you’re okay!”  He pulled back, looking you over.  “you are okay, right?”

You nodded shakily.  “My head hurts, and I have a few cuts from the ropes, but nothing serious.  Realizing you were still tied up, he quickly summoned a sharp bone and cut the rope around your wrists and ankles.

“y’know, i like seein’ ya tied up, but not like this,” he joked weakly, trying to lighten the mood.  You chuckled a bit before realizing something.

“How did you find me?  And h-how did you get here?  Can’t you only shortcut places you’ve been?”

His face grew sheepish and he looked away in embarrassment.  “i uh...may have installed a tracker in your phone...”

You glared at him.  “Butch, what did I say about stuff like that?”

He sighed.  “I need to respect your privacy and your ability to protect yourself.  but!  i didn’t use it until that dickwad called me, if that helps.”

You continued to glare at him.  “hey, it came in handy, didn’t it?  and it gives exact coordinates, which is enough for me to shortcut if i haven’t been somewhere before.”

You grudgingly admitted it had been useful, but hopefully this wouldn’t happen again.  You made a mental note to talk about it later, but right now, you just wanted to get out of this cell.  You wrapped your arms around him, squeezing him tightly.  “Take me home, please?” you begged.

He squeezed you gently.  “of course, doll.”  The stone walls disappeared around you as the two of you fell through time and space, back home, safe.

[renaerys]

11. “You’re going to make it. Just stay awake.” (Butch/Buttercup)

{{Original posting unfortunately deleted. Reposted here.}}

February Fic Prompt #11 originally requested by Anon. Greens shenanigans and hella innuendo, just the way I like them.

xxx

Everybody knew that the best person to go on night patrol with was Boomer. The guy talked but not nearly as much as Bubbles, who could probably talk herself through an earthquake and never even notice. He wasn’t a micromanager like Blossom or a straight-up jerk like Brick. And he definitely was not even half as annoying as Butch could be.

“You ever wonder what the fuck is up with Monster Island?”

Butch sat next to Buttercup on the Millennium Tower, the tallest building in Townsville, with their feet dangling over the edge and the city lights at their feet. She narrowed her eyes at him. “No.”

He ignored her. “You know, ‘cause that place is what, three? Four square miles? And the monsters just keep coming.”

“What’s your point?” Buttercup said, not really caring. Her watch read a quarter past midnight. She should’ve been in bed an hour ago.

Butch suddenly leaned in close, and Buttercup leaned back away from him. He looked very serious, and that almost always meant he was about to say something mad dumb—

“Giant beast orgies.”

Buttercup groaned. It was going to be a long night.

“For real! They must be going at it 24/7 poppin’ out tentacle monsters and dino hybrids and flaming squirrels at the rate we fight ‘em. How does that even work? Like, are they all just fucking and it’s Baby Roulette to see what’s gonna come out?”

“Dude, gross. I don’t want to think about that shit.”

“Pssh, don’t lie.”

“I’m really not.”

“You’re not even a little bit curious about what kinda Stranger Things shit is going down right over the bay?” Butch pointed southwest toward Citiesville’s Golden Bay, where the aptly named Monster Island sat a few miles off the coast. “Like the Booger Monster we fought before the Reds fucked off to Snob College. How does that even work?”

He made a crude gesture with this fist and forefinger and then pantomimed picking his nose. Buttercup shoved him off the edge of the building.

“Cut it out, Butch. I said I don’t want to talk about that shit.” She grabbed the backpack he’d brought and pulled out a bag of chips. “Besides, there’s nothing to talk about. It’s just weird monster biology, end of story.”

Butch floated one hundred stories above the ground and grinned at her. “So you have wondered about it.”

“Clearly not as much as you, Horny Darwin.”

He threw back his head and laughed from his gut. Buttercup scowled and stuffed some chips in her mouth. The crunch helped her focus, but her eyes were drooping and her head felt a bit fuzzy.

“Hey, you okay?” Butch was no longer laughing as he hovered close and peered at Buttercup. “You look tired.”

Buttercup cast the chips aside. They weren’t really helping, and she wasn’t hungry, anyway. She ran a hand through her shoulder-length hair. “Yeah, I woke up at 4 a.m. today.”

“Why the hell would you wake up that early on a patrol night?”

“Because I wasn’t supposed to be patrolling tonight, you were.”

“Oh, right. I forgot.”

Not surprising. Butch tended to tune out shit that didn’t directly concern him, especially if it was coming from Blossom. She’d called Buttercup at four in the goddamned morning ranting about some giant hairball monster that had attacked Ivy University campus and how Brick had been so sleep deprived that they’d both nearly suffocated to death and she had to help him to bed and somehow all of this was now Buttercup’s problem because Blossom knew they were patrolling alone for only a few hours to get out of it but no one should be patrolling alone in case of giant hairballs attacking. Buttercup pointed out that the likelihood of another giant hairball attacking Townsville, which was clear across the country from Blossom and Brick’s college, was pretty low. Blossom told her to cut the attitude and make sure Butch didn’t patrol alone tonight. She did not have time to argue when she had to go convince the administration to change Brick’s finals schedule so he could actually get some sleep.

And since Boomer and Bubbles were currently out of town at a music festival until tomorrow, Buttercup had no choice but to be here tonight.

“Ugh, whatever. Did you bring any of those energy shots? I’m about to pass out,” Buttercup said.

Butch sat back down next to her and pulled his bag onto his lap. “You know that shit’s basically radioactive rat piss.”

“This from the guy who scarfed three bacon double cheeseburgers on the flight over here.”

He grinned wolfishly and flexed his bicep at her. “Hey, this hot bod doesn’t get by on yogurt and protein shakes alone. A man needs red meat.”

“A man needs less cholesterol in his diet if he wants to live past 40.”

“See, this is why it’d never work between us. Sorry doll, I gotta lead with my stomach.”

Buttercup snapped at that awful pet name he’d taken to calling her lately and swung around to punch him in the stomach. He caught her fist just as it made contact, absorbing the brunt of her force, and met her eyes. The son of a bitch was still grinning.

“Don’t fucking call me that,” she hissed. Her fist shook and sparked with green energy as she tried to finish her punch, but he held on.  

Halfway under her as she threw her weight behind her stalled punch, Butch’s smile relaxed into something softer but just as dangerous as he looked up at her through his messy bangs. “You kinda like it.”

Buttercup dug her knee into his thigh right over the femoral artery, and he shuddered. “Yeah, this is me liking it.”

She applied more pressure, and he gasped. His other hand grabbed her shoulder and threw her off him, but Buttercup rolled and landed on her hands and feet in a crouch. Butch matched her guerrilla stance and they faced off on top of the world with the stars at their backs and thunder in their veins.

“Still gonna pass out?” he asked.

“What?”

“You said you were about to pass out. Is this any better?”

Buttercup frowned. He’d provoked her on purpose to distract her from her sleepiness? That was almost…

He got up and stretched like a cat, and Buttercup couldn’t help but notice the subtle ridges of his abs when his dark shirt ran up for just a moment. Clearly he was excelling at that gym trainer job he’d been at full-time since they graduated high school.

Not that that mattered at all.

She got up and wiped her hands on her jeans. “A little, I guess. Still tired as shit though.”

Butch cracked his neck like he was getting ready to fight, but he wasn’t. For as long as she had known him, Buttercup had always been able to sense when he felt the urge, just as he could sense it in her. Primal, instinctual, not just a need but a desire to ruin and be ruined all for the manic joy of surviving it. She felt it less the older she got once her body stopped changing and growing, but every couple of months they would inevitably seek each other out for a row. Not even monsters could quite scratch that particular itch. If anything, they exacerbated it.

“Sweet. I got a few other ideas,” he said.

Buttercup crossed her arms. “You get ideas?”

“Ha ha, you bitch. I’m serious.”

She cracked a smile. “We’re on patrol.”

“Yeah, so let’s go patrol.”

“What’re you—”

He took off in a blaze of green, not flying but running down the side of the Millennium Tower, dodging balconies and flipping off the flagpole like some kind of insane Super gymnast. He didn’t lose momentum when he landed and took off running across the busy street toward the next building.

Buttercup was dashing after him before she could think twice about it, to hell with staying here by herself. She slid over the roofs of two cars crossing the street and leaped from balcony to balcony as she climbed the next building higher and higher. Butch had already made it to the top and paused to look back at her. His smiling challenge boiled her blood, and he took off sprinting again along the drain pipes. Buttercup flipped over the guard railing on the roof, sprinted to the other side, and leaped off the edge in a free fall.

The night wind whipped her loose hair, and she somersaulted to cushion her landing on the pedestrian sky bridge connecting this building to the next. Butch slid down the drain pipe and landed similarly a short ways ahead on the glass and metal bridge. They faced off, and she couldn’t help but grin fantastically at the sight of him winded and emanating green power, ready to run.

They didn’t speak, there was no need. He took off and she tore after him, each carving their own path leaping concrete chasms, rolling into their falls, and racing against gravity and mortality up the mirror-bright sides of skyscrapers. Buttercup cartwheeled through a narrow path between two huge AC generators and landed like a cat on the metal railing, where she spotted an enormous tower crane powered down for the night in the midst of a new construction project. It was tens of stories tall, and she wanted nothing more than to run up its mast.

Butch had the same idea and leaped like a monkey from the roof of the building next to hers and grabbed the jib. He hit it with the force of a Super, and the huge machinery whined and began to swing. Buttercup abandoned her original plan for one that would be a thousand times cooler. Moving fast, she raced along the thin railing and pedaled through her jump to get her across to the next building over. The crane groaned in protest as Butch sprinted along the length of the jib. She wouldn’t have much of a window.

With a running start, Buttercup scrambled up the wall of the roof access door and jumped high into the air just as the long, metal winch cord came swinging by. She grabbed it barely in the nick of time and went spinning.

Above, she searched for Butch and found that he wasn’t slowing his momentum even as he neared the end of the jib. Buttercup gave the winch cord a little extra boost of her power and went careening high into the air on an updraft just as Butch free-dived off the jib. The night air parted for her and the stars fell to meet her as she reached out, elated, and Butch reached back.

They joined hands at the wrists, and Buttercup moved with gravity and the momentum he’d brought with him before it could wrench her arm clean out of the socket. Together, they hurtled through the air, bounced off a radio tower pole, and landed in a two-man roll on a private rooftop golf course.

Butch was laughing when they came to a stop in a heap on the green, and Buttercup laughed with him. He had his arms around her as she hovered over him.

“That was,” he stammered, breathless.

“Amazing!” Buttercup said.

“Fucking incredible! Holy shit, when you ran for the winch cord—”

“I didn’t think I’d stick it for a second—”

“But you did and I swear I lost my goddamned mind—”

“You jumped! You fucking idiot, you’re lucky I was there to catch you.” Buttercup shoved him, but he only laughed again and held her waist tighter.

“Woman please, how could you ever resist the chance to catch this hot shit? I saw your face, you totally creamed yourself!”

“Fuck you, it was the moment and I wasn’t even looking at you!”

They could hardly breathe as they laughed, and gravity rolled them over. The grass was cool under Buttercup’s cheek, and above the stars were bright and close. Slowly, the moment subsided as they caught their breaths and watched each other through the gloom.

“I kinda knew you’d catch me,” Butch said.

Buttercup rolled her eyes. “I regret it already.”

“Sure you do.”

He was smiling, but there was no mocking or malice behind it. Strangely enough, Buttercup thought it suited him.

She pulled away before she could finish that dangerous train of thought, and he let her without making a big deal out of it. They sat up side by side and looked out over the city and the ocean beyond. Monster Island was dark, but the detection barrier surrounding it glowed a subtle blue in the starlight and city lights.

“Five and a half hours until sunrise,” Butch said, checking his watch.

Buttercup groaned. “That’s so long from now.”

He nudged her shoulder with his. “You’re gonna make it. Just stay awake.”

“Wow, genius plan.” She nudged him back.

“Hey, I got plenty more ideas where Super Parkour came from. Just say the word.”

Buttercup allowed herself a smile in the darkness. Butch could drive her crazy, but over the years she’d gotten used to his self-indulgent vulgarity. Sometimes she didn’t mind. Sometimes it was just kind of nice. Familiar. A pull she couldn’t explain or describe, except that she knew he felt it too, and he always knew exactly what she needed.

“In a few minutes,” Buttercup said, her eyes drooping a bit as sleep crept up on her little by little.

She could feel his warmth through her sleeve and his, close enough to touch, close enough.

“Yeah,” he said, and turned his gaze skyward. “Just a few more minutes.”

They had all night, after all.

[reginaldbelchhuggins-blog]

The Short and Miserable Romance of Victor Criss

Pairings: Henry x Victor, with some side Butch x Mrs Criss Rating: M Warnings for this chapter: Violence against children, implied/referenced domestic abuse, period-typical ableism and attitudes Warnings for later chapters: Violence, homophobia, racism, and sexism that are all period-typical; canon-standard content; underage sex, smoking, and drinking; noncon elements (but no actual noncon); canonical character death; major character death; strong language Chapters: 1, [2], [3], [4], [5], [6], [7] Ao3: [x] Summary:

Told from Victor's perspective, each chapter details either a first or last moment of Vic's growing relationship with Henry Bowers as they navigate homophobia, mental issues, and the growing influence of It. The first two chapters are pre-1988, the middle two will be where the sex is, and the final two are where the romance goes south

Chapter 7 could act as a stand-alone told from Henry’s perspective

Story prompt: The first and last Meeting/Kiss/Time of your OTP

A/N: This is their first meeting. According to the book, they met in first grade, but I’ve got them around the age of 5 here:

July 1978

“Victor Andrew Criss, you get back here this instant!” 

The tiny blonde was flying down the street. His little Harley Davidson boots never touched the ground. The woman chasing him – her husband’s leather belt tight in hand – hadn’t run since high school. That had been two and half Vic’s ago. Red-faced and panting, she was determined not to lose sight of him.

“Your daddy’s gonna whoop your ass red, boy!”

He ran straight down Jackson Street and hooked a left at Witcham. His boots slipped against the smooth cement, but he managed to stay upright. He kept track of his directions in his mind, knowing he’d have to go home some day. Maybe after a week, or a month, or even a few months. However long it took for his parents to realize that coming here was the worst decision they could have made .

Maybe he’d go back to Portland himself. Someone here must know how to get there and would be willing to give him a ride. He had two dollars in his pocket to pay for it.

But Papaw Criss had died, and now Vic’s dad decided they were going to be farmers. He didn’t care that Mama Criss had to leave her good job working in that office with the asshole boss (her words). He didn't care that they could no longer afford McDonald’s on the weekends. Papa didn’t care that their house was smaller, and smellier, or that there were rats in the basement. Papa didn’t care that it would take the entire family to work the land, and, frankly speaking, Vic didn’t want to. Papa Criss didn’t care about anyone but himself, and his sudden desire to recapture his youth.

Or at least that’s what his Mama told Angela Bartlett on the phone the night before the moving van arrived. Though Vic didn’t know what it meant, he agreed with it all the same. Because the way she said it, he knew it was something only an asshole would do.

“VICTOR ANDREW! STOP!” His mother’s voice sounded far away. He could hear the raw force in it, though. She was steamin’ mad, but he didn’t dare look back. He didn’t dare stop. As soon as he stopped, she’d be lifting him by one arm and whipping him with the other. So he lowered his head to fight the wind, and ran even faster.

Vic didn’t see the man until they were colliding. The child’s entire weight slammed into the back of the man’s knee, forcing it to buckle; but the man’s reflexes were fast. He caught himself on one knee. His hand swung out with deliberate force, curling into a fist only moments before it caught Vic above his right eye . Fire exploded across Vic’s face. The force of the punch knocked him off his feet. As the back of his head bounced off the sidewalk, the world went bright white for a few seconds, and then black.

 Vic woke for a brief moment. Someone was carrying him, cradling him like he was a baby. It wasn’t his Mama, but someone with big, round arms, who smelled like cigarettes and barbeque. Vic tried to protest being carried , but his words came out slurred and messy. His Mama’s hand popped up from nowhere, petting his hair. She shushed him.

"Go back to sleep, baby. You’re alright.”

He might have tried to fight it, but his eyes were so heavy, and the world had gone fuzzy. He rested his face against the man’s chest, and drifted away again.

 When consciousness returned in full, Vic was in bed, staring at the walls he'd wake up to every day for the rest of his life. Someone had removed his shoes, bandaged up his head, and tucked him in. He moved to undo all, but sitting up made the dull ache in his brain into a regular ache, and then it became a throbbing ache. His brain was thumping so loud against his skull, he almost didn’t hear the small voice asking him if it was alright.

“Huh?” Vic asked, turning so he could see who spoke.

Looking the same age as Vic, there was a boy sitting on a fold out chair beside the bed. He was taller than Victor by an inch, and had the sort of thin, hay-colored hair baby dolls had. He also had the face of a baby doll, with big blue eyes, and a small mouth. Boys weren’t supposed to be pretty, but Vic couldn’t think of another way to say it. The boy was pretty, and Vic couldn’t stop smiling when the boy looked at him. He liked it when the boy looked at him, but couldn't say why.

He was reading Vic’s comics and sipping from a Pepsi bottle with a straw in it. As he noticed Vic staring, he began to hold the Pepsi closer to his chest. Vic could see some second thoughts cross his mind. He held it out to Vic instead, turning the straw so it was easier for him to take a sip. It was the best tasting soda Vic had ever had.

“Butch got you good,” the boy said. His voice was lower than Vic’s, and already had a quality Vic would come to associate with drinking. “He said you might have a concussion.”

“Who’s Butch?” Vic asked, wincing as he remembered his headache. It seemed to make it stronger.

“My dad,” the boy answered, as if it wasn’t strange to call his dad anything other than some variation of father.

“Oh,” Vic said. The boy was straight forward and plain. It got Vic thinking that maybe he was wrong and that maybe in places other than Portland that was a normal thing. “What’s a concussion?”

“I don’t know but you’re probably going to the hospital,” the boy said. He seemed worried. He set the Pepsi down on the floor, and then held up some fingers, remembering something he saw on TV. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Vic counted them slowly, trying to not to aggravate the pain. “Three.”

“Okay, you’re good then. Just get some iced peas and a glass of wine. That’s what my mom does when Butch gets her good.”

Vic nodded. What the boy was saying didn’t make sense. How were peas supposed to help a headache? But he said it with such confidence that Vic couldn’t help but think he knew what he was talking about.

They sat in silence for only a few seconds, and then the boy’s mouth was running miles a minute. He showed Vic the comics he’d picked out to read. Even though they were Vic’s, he started talking to him about them like Vic wouldn't know anything. Vic hardly got a word in edgewise, and it was usually, “Oh yeah!” or “Cool.” But the boy had come alive, and his eyes sparkled as he pointed out some detail in the background of the page. Vic’d never seen anyone so passionate about something before. It had him charmed and mesmerized.

The boy was soon sitting on the bed beside him. The Pepsi shared between them, the boy went on about his comic book theories.

“He has to be in Batman’s brain because he always knows what Batman’s doing. Plus my dad has the same thing. He fought against the Vietcong and sometimes he thinks people are there when they aren’t.”

Vic didn’t know what a Vietcong was, but he’d heard Papa say that sometimes, so it was a thing that existed. It drew up some image of a giant monkey, though, so that's what he saw. He giggled at the thought of seeing one that didn’t really exist walking about. It made him remember the game he used to play. That was before Papa had backhanded him across the mouth and told him to grow up, of course.

"That game's for little babies and psychos," he'd said. Vic had started crying, even as he insisted he wasn't either one.

“Yeah, but you don’t see them because they’re ‘maginary,” Vic said. “Robin sees the Joker, too. So he’s real.”

“This is comic books,” the boy said, making a face like that answered everything. In a way, Vic supposed it did. They both started laughing at that.

“I’m Victor, by the way. Victor Criss.”

“Henry. Bowers,” the boy said, holding out his hand. Vic shook it, and when their skin touched, he felt something pass between them.

When Vic looked into Henry's eyes, he saw loneliness. He was like Vic: filled with passions and aspirations, looking for someone to share them with. But unlike Vic, he'd lost his boyhood innocence already. His arms were already sporting purple and blue marks from the lessons he'd learned so far. When Henry looked into him, he must’ve seen something too, because they both kept holding on.

Vic wondered if this is what it felt like to have a brother.

Lacing their fingers together in that way Vic sometimes saw in magazines, the two glanced at the door. They didn’t think they were doing anything wrong, but they’d also learned a long time ago their parents often thought different .

Henry’s voice dropped into a conspirator’s whisper: “Do you like firecrackers?”

Vic nodded.

The mischievous smile that took over Henry’s face made Vic feel very happy in a way he didn’t fully understand. So they were both grinning ear to ear as he crept closer to Vic, and revealed that he had a pocket full of them.

“Can I come over when you set them off?” Vic asked, his voice also very soft and very low.

“Fuck yeah. I got a bunch of crap toys I plan on blowing up after cartoons tomorrow.”

Vic smiled at Henry using a bad word, but the smile faltered when something occurred to him. “I don’t know where you live…”

“Oh, then I’ll come over here. Butch works until later and he can pick me up. I think he'd like to talk to your mom again. They've been talking in your dad's room for a really long time."

Vic blinked. Henry shrugged.

"I have some XMen comics in that box over there..."

 Butch and Henry stayed for dinner. Mama had a dreamy look in her eyes as she served them sirloin and potatoes. Papa had bought that food for their anniversary. But whatever she and Butch had talked about put her in such a good mood, she must've forgot. Her cheeks were even a nice shade of pink, making her look like a little girl. The front door opened and Papa appeared. He had worked his last day at the supermarket, and the smile on his face match the one on his wife's. 

"You boys go on and watch TV," Papa ordered, clapping Butch on the back. "Let us grown ups talk." 

That was code for let us get drunk. The boys shot them curious glances, and then were out in the living room. They had no way of knowing Oscar "Butch" Bowers and Andy Criss Jr were once old school mates, but the laughter coming from the kitchen was loud and hearty, and they knew they wouldn't be interrupted anytime soon. Henry's hand crept over to grab Vic's, and Vic let him take it. They sat that way until Henry passed out. Vic undid their fingers and pretended to be asleep when Butch came to collect his son. He seemed less like a psycho when he cradled his sleeping boy then when he knocked Vic out. The potential was still there, though.

Mama and Papa saw them to the door. They didn’t move Vic back to his room. They turned off the television set and went about their evening unpacking. Vic couldn't make out the hushed argument they were having, but he could hear their tones and knew they were having one . It would be the first of many that ended with one of the other of them in the kitchen, and the other in the bedroom.

Pretending to be asleep became being asleep. Although he'd be waking up in that miserable house, Vic didn't mind it, anymore. He had a whole day of playing with Henry to look forward to. He would recall, years later, that they never did take him to the hospital. In fact, he could pinpoint that memory as the exact moment in time when his parents changed. It was subtle, at first, but they did change as all parents in Derry changed. They became less of a presence in his life, less invested. Almost like they had been preparing for his death from the moment it was decided they belonged there.

That day, Vic didn't know anything about it. So he slept peacefully, and dreamed of the day ahead.

[adventures-in-asexuality]

Assorted gender thoughts:

- if I woke up tomorrow and everything was perfect, I think the gender binary )or maybe gender in general?) would be opt-in. If you really wanted, you could be gendered male/female/specific other, but it wouldn’t be default and mandatory, and our politics wouldn’t be built about male/female, necessitating the whole Alignment thing. (I don’t pretend that this would be perfect - I’m sure it would be fucked up in other ways - but that is kind of my fantasy thing for just. Not having to deal with any of this.)

- the attitude discussed in this post is a good part of why I have often felt that exploring gender stuff is Wrong and Not For Me; if I have to pick man/woman even if I try to ID as nonbinary, well, I’m super definitely hugely not a man, so... (and then I think that if all dfab nb people are Secretly A Man I must be Secretly A Man just for thinking about it, and then I crawl out of my skin with dysphoria and guilt and go do something else)

- if I woke up tomorrow and everything was perfect, I would look androgynous; less curvy, less chesty, probably taller. I would be able to present femme and present butch and present fuck-you. (I know that butch is still A Sapphic Thing, but also I do often feel like The Butch Icon is way more androgynous than me, and way less curvy.) I would be able to bind easily and not bind if I didn’t want to. (If everything was perfect I would also be a normal-person shape and able to buy clothes, while we’re fantasising.)

- if I woke up tomorrow and everything was perfect I would not have to deal with stupid crappy body parts that didn’t work and fucked everything up (by which I mean the whole uterine deal specifically (I hate the entire concept of it so much, even setting aside that it also is stupid and painful!!!!), but also that could go for everything else too. The rest isn’t remotely gendered though).

- I am super jealous of people who are actually figuring shit out about themselves and/or transitioning and/or making changes (and/or even feeling like they might be entitled to make decisions about themselves, sometimes, without having to qualify it with ‘but I’m fucked up and probably wrong and stupid’). I think this goes back to having a sense of how a future could be, having a sense that it’s achievable and attainable. And, also, having a sense that they deserve that and can figure stuff out and not have to constantly disclaimer themselves out of everything because they’re too broken to be a real person. 

- I’m not sure I could not call myself a lesbian, though, and I realise the discourse for that is - very much A Thing. I feel the most like I could be vaguely gendered in terms of dating someone - in the sense of ‘same hat!’, in the sense of ‘fuck the male gaze’, in the sense of ‘fuck yeah I don’t have to marry a man’, and so on. I can be a person with another woman.

- I feel trapped in having to ID as cis no matter what I feel because of economic realities. I know that I’m always poised just above the precipice of everything completely falling apart because I’m disabled and weird and different; I know that if anything I need to make my gender presentation more stereotypically feminine (though I’m not super capable of that); I know that that will continue until I drastically change my situation, either by moving someplace better or by building a family again (or both), and that I have to plan as if neither of those will ever happen. I know I don’t have financial responsibility for other people now, so I no longer have to think that I must never consider transition because it might financially hurt them (though if anyone else said that to me I’d tell them to love themselves more and maybe be in a healthier relationship), but I’m still scared shitless of that precipice.

- I am inherently political and gender is inherently political and that’s a whole fucking mess. (Do you ever wish that you could just be a person and not have to evaluate every step you take, everything you might think about yourself, to see whether it’s in line with your political goals and whether it’s selling anyone out or getting you into more trouble or anything else? I sure do.) If everything was perfect, none of this would be a big deal or even a deal at all, and I could experiment and try to figure shit out - but it is and I don’t even feel like I can touch this, most of the time, without being a horrible appropriating fuckup and damaging other people (and also myself).